It's been a few years since Korea and times are different now.
Times are always different, you find yourself thinking. Five years ago sitting at a bar with your wife would have been laughable. What would have been even more laughable, would have been that you'd be on drink number seven, and you'd only now be feeling a little tipsy. What would have been the most laughable of all, would be that you would be sitting at the bar staring into the bottom of a tumbler, not giving a damn about who your wife was talking to, if she was being hit on, or even if she was hitting on someone else.
But you're sitting here now, and that's exactly what you're doing. You yell for the bartender, Jack Spelling—you're quite familiar with that name now—to pour you another drink. He comes over, all neat and trimmed and looking back and forth between you and your wife as if you're going to explode at any moment and ruin the nice, quiet night he's been having. You don't blame him. Any respectable husband would be all over his wife for doing some of the things she was doing now that she was six sheets to the wind and hanging all over anyone who would pay her the slightest bit of attention.
Lord knew she needed it after everything the two of you had been going through. It had been small after Korea, because Korea had been Hell, so naturally going home was Heaven. Of course, you returned home and it really had been Heaven for those first few months. However, the longer you stayed home the longer you realized that all your fears in Korea had come true. You had feared that you would become to very different people who didn't know each other, and it had happened.
She was self-sustaining. You said she could give up her job at the diner and stay with Erin after you had re-established your career as a doctor, and she very plainly told you that she liked her job. She told you that you didn't have to worry about the nightmare anymore, and you had found yourself thinking that the nightmare would never be over, because the nightmare would live forever as soon as you shut your eyes. You tried to do menial tasks for her around the house, but you found that she was better at fixing sinks now than you were. She had fixed the ladder and now cleaned the gutters all the time. You were pretty much only there to make income, and that feeling had seeded itself deep in your mind, until you would glare at her for no reason, or for every reason, as she single-handedly checked your broken stove until she decided that she would have to call the repairman.
A year later, despite everything, when you looked at her you saw a strange woman standing in front of you, cradling your daughter to her as she hugged her before she left for work. You know that when she looked at you—looks at you—she felt the same way. The two of you weren't compatible for each other anymore. You wanted someone who needed more than money from you, and she needed someone who needed her for who she was, despite the fact that she was what most would call 'liberal.'
Two years later, this is where the two of you are. You don't share a room anymore. You sleep in the spare room. You barely talk to her anymore, your only conversations with her anymore being about the little angel you share with her, and the bills, what few there are worth worrying about. You find that most of her time at work is spent fraternizing with the male customers who are, as she says, 'my usuals,' in a tone that suggests a bit more than a customer/waitress relationship. That is so low too, because what crosses your mind when she says that these days is a prostitute, like the 'working girls' back in
Korea who sold themselves for just a few pennies from the soldiers, only in your mind she's selling herself for that little ounce of love you just can't seem to spare her anymore. You would assign yourself more hours at the hospital, but you just can't do that to your little girl, so you force yourself to come home these days just so you can see Erin's smiling face.
This is what Heaven has become; Hell. And Hell, though it is still Hell, and always will be, seems just a little more bearable. At least in Hell, there had been something to hope for. What can you hope for now that you're in Heaven and it's just not good enough? Your friend, you lifeline through that time period, the person you find yourself missing more than you ever missed your wife back in Korea, would be laughing if he could hear your thoughts now. With all your perfection, with all your happiness, and all your good fortune, you're still not happy. He would call you some name that only he could think up at the time, something fitting yet not really. He would call you 'Midas,' the king with a golden touch who was not happy in his kingdom of pure gold.
You wonder how he is. You wonder how everyone you knew in Korea is, but you especially wonder about Hawkeye. You wonder if he's doing okay, if he's still in Maine. You wonder if he's still skittish around children, if he still sees a psychiatrist and if he does, if it's Sidney he's seeing. You wonder if he still talks to the rest of the old group, and if he does, why he doesn't talk to you. Why doesn't anyone talk to you? You were all so close in Korea and now you're all back in the States, and it's like you've all forgotten each other. Most of all, you wonder if Hawkeye is seeing someone.
Staring into your glass of alcohol, a little tipsy, and just so uncaring right now, it's…well, it's laughable, you don't quite realize that you're suddenly very interested in whether or not he's seeing anyone. You are though, and it seems quite natural. You saw each other in every way possible. The two of you were so far apart that you went around the world stood right next to each other. You were calm, quiet reserved. He was quick to temper, loud, and outrageous. You had a family, while he didn't. It seemed to you like he liked to piss people off as a pass time, while you generally—before you met him, at least—liked to stay on peoples' good sides.
But at the same time, you had seen him at his lowest point, when he had stooped low enough to take a healthy organ out of a man. His causes were noble, no doubt, but it wasn't right. Not long after that, you had seen him when he had just, plain lost his mind. And he had seen you at your lowest point, which, to you, was lower than both of those, because you actually hit him. You hit Hawkeye, and even sitting here three years later, tipsy, and ignoring your wife, you feel guilty about that. You hit him for your family, your daughter mainly, but your family in general. Your wife, who had laughed at the situation, who you now ignored. You hit him for her.
You had seen each other through tough time after tough time, pulling jokes and throwing wild parties for each other that weren't quite normal for best friend standards. You dyed the entire camp a rosy colour red because he was so tired of green. He went out of his way to make your anniversary something special—and again you're laughing, because your wife is back in the picture. You played tricks on him to break up his monotony. He pushed your buttons to get you out of ruts you had dug yourself so deep into you almost couldn't get out, to get you angry at him so you wouldn't be angry at yourself.
And you did the most domestic things for each other, which at the time, you had never noticed, but now you wonder how you missed it. You filled his coffee cup without him asking you to. He switched food around on your trays, taking what you didn't like, and giving you what he didn't like, though most of the time it just ended up with the two of you still having trays of food you didn't like, but you disliked it in a bearable way. He leaned against you when he was tired, falling asleep most time, and you did the exact same thing to him. He cut your hair. You paid for each other's tabs when one couldn't, and it seemed that you were almost always handed his poker winnings, as if you were his personal bank. You flirted; you went everywhere together; you lived together like you were married to him. You loved every second of it is what's really getting to you now…
…because you're still married to your wife, who's currently sitting on another man's lap, laughing ridiculously loud, and having more fun with a total stranger than she's had with you in two years.
You down the rest of your drink in one gulp, and ask Jack for another, contemplating the blue eyed man that you haven't seen or properly thought of in two years. You really do miss him, and that floats across your mind with more finality than the first time, and you suddenly feel guilty again, because you haven't tried to contact him. Nevermind he hasn't contacted you. You have a family and Hawkeye being Hawkeye probably assumed that once you were home you wouldn't need him anymore.
You do need him, though. You've needed him more than anything in these last two years, because maybe had you continued talking to him when you were home, you would have realized sooner that Heaven was great and all but it just wasn't home. You would have realized that it was so much easier to talk to him than it was to talk to your wife, whom you're still looking at. You would have realized that he loved you, in more than a way that best friends loved each other. You would have realized that your true love was never her, like you preached so often, but him. Always him.
Your wife—funny how she doesn't seem to have a name to you—catches you staring at her. You consider looking away, but you don't; you really don't care enough to. She comes over to you, leaving the lap she was on, and stumbling her way over to the bar with the help of several tables, chairs, and random people. She's gone; she's plastered; she's drunk as a skunk, but she says to you, all business and very serious, "I don't love you anymore."
There's a ringing silence around you, even though you're sitting in a bar full of drunken people who are yelling and laughing and having a damn fine time. In that silence all you can think about is why you just don't care anymore. Two years ago this would have been the end of your life; this one five word phrase would have just ended you. Now all you can do is nod and smile a little, saying back to her, "Okay," because as much as she doesn't love you, that's how much you don't love her, and how much, you realize now, you love a man on the opposite side of the country, whom you haven't spoken to in two years, and that's what makes the silence around you so intense.
You don't love her. You love him. You. Love. Him. And it's not the fact that he is a him, but more the fact that it took you this long to realize it. That you could have given your wife happiness and found your own, but you were just so blind, so stubborn, so stupid!
You let her stumble away from you, and hours later as the two of you enter the house that you share, while she's still telling you she doesn't love you, and why she doesn't love you, and for how long she hasn't loved you, you're still thinking about Hawkeye.
The next day, when you're wife stumbles out of her room holding her head and searching for anything that will kill the taste of alcohol in her mouth, you meet her in the kitchen and hand her a cup of black coffee, a shot of whiskey, and two aspirins. She grumbles out something that could be a 'thank you,' just as well as it could be a curse. She takes the shot, like you instruct, telling her it's best to have the hair of the dog that bit you, throws the aspirin in her mouth and follows it immediately with the coffee. She sits down at the table, and asks vaguely where Erin is, which you answer immediately, telling her that Erin's in the back yard playing ball with Waggle.
She nods slowly, then sits there. She just sits there and you let her, because you know. You know she hasn't forgotten. This isn't the first time the two of you have gone to the bar. You know how much it takes to make her forget, and she hadn't reached it last night. So you wait, because she will remember. And like clockwork, she snaps her head up, her face white and her eyes wide. Her mouth is open, and she looks so much like a fish, right then.
You get bizarre amusement out of that scene. You really do, because five years ago, this would have been so laughable, and now it's so fitting. Your wife, Peg Hunnicutt, has a hangover, realizes just how honest she was when drunk, and is looking at you in awe. It's just so unbelievable!
She asks in a quiet, breathy, tone, "Oh God, did I…I really said…"
She can't seem to get it out, and you don't try to make her, because the sooner you work through all of this, the sooner the two of you can start on a road to being happy again, and not necessarily with each other. So, you nod slightly, saying in a very factual tone, "You don't love me anymore." She looks ready to apologize, to retract what she said, and at the very moment you want her to do nothing of the sort. You don't want to hear her say that she loves you because you know it's not true, and if she said it, it would make you feel bad for what you were about to say. Thusly, you cut to the chase quick as possible. "I think a divorce is in order, and I'd like to be civil about it, if it's alright with you?"
Her shoulders slump, her eyes stare at the table in disbelief, but she nods sullenly, before you even take the seat in front of her.
By the end of the day, the two of you have drawn out your divorce. She'll keep the house, and one car. She doesn't want alimony, but she'll need child support payment, which you nearly glare at her over, but you refrain, because this isn't your everyday divorce story. She probably expected one hell of a hassle from you after what she had said. You'll get Erin every summer, and you'll rotate her for Christmas and Spring Break. It's as simple as that.
She helps you pack your things into boxes, your clothes into suitcases, and all of that into the back of your car. The two of you explain as best you can to your four-year-old little girl what's going on, holding her as she cries and promising that she'll never be forgotten. Your wife—ex-wife—says when you get your own place, she'll bring Erin over since it's summer, but she doesn't want her living out of a suitcase if she can get away with it. You agree. It won't take you that long to get an apartment, so it won't be that bad, and she says that you can still come over and visit as often as you want.
It's a very awkward moment, you find yourself thinking. Divorces aren't supposed to be like this. They're supposed to be messy, painful, and hateful, but the two of you are handling this as if it's an everyday business transaction and that's your biggest hint at how completely unhappy the two of you were. Standing on your porch, staring at the wooden planks, and grasping at a failing conversation that's wrapping up a failing marriage…yes, it's very awkward, especially since you're thinking about what you'll say to Hawkeye when you get to the hotel and call him. Very awkward.
Which she makes even worse by suddenly grabbing you, hugging you tightly and whispering, "Thank you," in your ear.
It's not the Peg you know. It's not even a Peg you like. However, it's a Peg that you can respect, now that you're free of her, now that you've set her free. With that in your mind, you hug her back.
"You're welcome."
Six months later, you've packed your apartment again. The movers are loading all of your belongings onto the moving truck. You've got a plane ticket in your hand and you're once again talking to Peg, just the last time before you head across the expansive land to Maine. She's asking about plane, bus, and train ticket expenses, and you're trying to work it out with her while hinting that you've got a plane to catch and a daughter to console before you do that.
Erin's sitting at the table, glaring with her big, perfect blue eyes. She's mad at you because you're leaving again, and it's just not fair. You should stay here with her. She'll miss you.
She's the hardest part about all this. You're going to have to leave her. There's no way Peg would ever give her up, and there's no way that you would put Erin through the torment of being caught in the middle of a court settlement between her parents. So, if you're going to chase this wild dream of yours, which happens to live in Maine with a thriving practice, you're going to have to give up your ability to see her every weekend. Though, with you being so far away, Peg has graciously suggested that you take her for Fall Break as well as Spring Break, and perhaps you could alternate Thanksgivings as well as Christmases, along with you still getting her for summers.
You finally break away from Peg and sit by your daughter for the last few minutes that you can before you'll see her again for this Christmas. You console her as best you can, promising to call her everyday,
and telling her that 'mommy' has your number so that if ever she misses you. She can just call and you'll answer. She seems a little better at that, but she's still depressed. Who could blame her though? You can't imagine what this would have done to you, but it will be for the better; she'll see when she's older. If she doesn't, you'll explain it to her. That way, hopefully, all of this will pull together to be a story with an acceptable ending.
She hugs you tightly, having strength that no other little girl you know possesses, and you hug her back the same way. You cherish the moment for as long as you can. Then, sadly, you give her a kiss on the forehead, tuck a pretty blonde curl behind her ear, and tell her to watch out for her mommy. "I'll call you tomorrow. I promise," you say, with watery eyes, but already you're standing and moving away from her.
It's so painful, but you do it, and finally, depressingly enough, you're on that plane to find your way home.
The first thing you do in Portland, Maine is go to Hawkeye's house. It's kind of late, around midnight or so, but you know he'll be up because he's just getting home from his shift at the hospital. The two of you have been talking for six months now, you know his schedule by heart, and you talk about menial things with him just like you used to. It had almost been like old times, except you couldn't see each other as you talked, and you're so happy to know that he isn't seeing anyone, but now that you're about to see him, you wonder if perhaps seeing each other will change things.
You haven't told him about your romantic feelings for him, but the flirting was there blatant as ever now that your eyes were open. Now that you're here standing on the other side of his door, you wonder if he really does have those types of feelings for you, or if that was just how Hawkeye was and is. You wonder what will happen if he doesn't. You wonder how you'll be able to live in the same city as he, and love him in a way you know you shouldn't, and you know would get you ostracized from all communities if anyone were ever to find out, and not have him return such feelings.
You wonder all this as you knock on his door, waiting for long intense seconds that are so silent and so oppressive that you think that perhaps you're going to suffocate. To make every thing worse, Hawkeye's taking forever to answer the door. You see his car in the drive, but he's just taking forever, as if he knows you're there and he's drawing out the suspense.
Finally, the door opens and there stands Hawkeye, looking so professional and happy it almost throws you for a loop. However, he takes one look at you and his happy look goes away. He sighs dramatically, saying in a stricken voice, "The nightmare continues!"
You're confused for a second. You did tell him you were coming, and you had told him to expect you to be there, but yet he looks disappointed…like he had been expecting someone else. Anxiety takes hold of your heart, and you feel the organ actually plummeting with the weight of it. But then he grabs hold of
the moustache you mostly forget is there these days and says, "I had a dream last night that I was being attacked by a cheesy moustache."
It takes a heartbeat, maybe two, but you reply back, "And to think I grew it back just for you."
He smiles. It's that same smile he used to give you back in Korea, the one that said he missed you or that he was insanely happy to see you because you were going to bail him out of whatever trouble he was in whether you knew it or not; the one that said, 'thanks for being here' or, 'thanks for picking me out of the hole I was seriously working to bury myself in'; the one that said, 'it's taken you long enough.' Then he stepped back away from the door, welcoming you into his house, pulling you in gently by your forearm the way he used to when he was beckoning you to follow him somewhere so that the two of you could talk in private.
When the door shuts behind you, he doesn't hesitate for a moment. He takes the few steps in between you and presses his lips to yours. Suddenly all your worries are out the window, because he's kissing you and obviously that means he reciprocates your feelings and you won't have to worry about anything you've been worrying about, at least, not right now. Something may go pear-shaped in the future, but right now, he's kissing you and coaxing your lips open, while winding his fingers into your hair, and you're sliding your hands around his waist accepting his invitation to play a little bit of tonsil hockey.
And it's really laughable right now, because this is exactly what you've wanted ever since you got to Heaven, and you had it in Hell all along.
A/N: smiles that's all I can do right now.
As per usual I don't own MASH or any of it's characters.
I hope you liked this enough to review.
InnocentGuilt