Crabapple Cove, Maine – October, 1951

The day had passed with little incident. In that respect, it was like every other day that had passed since Hawkeye had landed with a bump back to earth in Maine. After months of frantic surgery interspersed with periods of mind-numbing boredom, cosy, comfortable inactivity had become order of the day: vegetating in front of the TV, curling up in bed with the same books he had read through his childhood, or kicking around in the garden or on the front porch.

Today it was the first option. The couch in front of the television had become Hawkeye's little nest. He'd rarely moved unless to change the channel or scavenge for more snacks in the kitchen cabinets. He'd salvaged an old bedspread from the linen cupboard, and now, for the fifth day in a row, languished beneath it staring at the screen. Crumbs of potato chips, cookies and hastily prepared sandwiches gathered in the yellow candlewick fluff, but lethargy and misery prevented him from doing much about it. The rough scratch of the upholstery reminded him of sick-days home from school, being fed chicken soup. When he buried his nose in the aging cushions, he could smell his childhood. Here, he was safe.

He rarely ventured outside – the friends he had missed so acutely during his years away from the little town he loved would, no doubt, fail to understand his predicament – and instead he preferred to barricade himself in his boyhood home, alone and untouchable. This whole house was awash with nice, safe memories. It hadn't been decorated since his mother died, so every room was like a little time capsule, shrouded in faded wallpaper that was barely fashionable when it had gone up on the walls. Here, Hawkeye could lock himself away from the world. He would deal with the present day when tomorrow came.

Or so he had told himself for three weeks now.

Daniel began to worry – about his moods, about his career, and not least of all about the contents of the liquor cabinet that had begun to deplete mysteriously overnight. His son's return from Korea had been sudden and secretive. He didn't even know he was back in the country until he received a phone call. Now, Hawkeye was back in Maine, the secrets continued. He was cagey about his plans, revealing only that he needed some time off. Daniel avoided asking questions, but as the days passed they began to gnaw at his mind with growing ferocity.

But Daniel didn't like to pry. They were close, father and son, but talking about the big stuff – death, disease, the horror of war and all that – wasn't their strongpoint. So Daniel kept quiet, and Hawkeye kept moping. But now, as he stood in the doorway watching the light from the television flicker over his son's motionless features, his silence broke.

"You have a good day?" It was the most Daniel could manage in terms of prodding a response out of his depressed son.

"Oh, it was phenomenal." The response was uttered without so much as a flicker of an eyelid. Hawkeye stared at the television, the raucous laughter of the studio audience on tonight's episode of 'I Love Lucy' filled the living room, hissing and tinny through the speakers. "I discovered a new sandwich – peanut butter and tinned pineapple on rye. I think you ought to contact the Crabapple Cove Chronicle, because this is going to take the culinary world by storm."

Daniel ignored the biting sarcasm. "Maybe you could help me out at the clinic sometime? Get back in the swing of things? I know it's not much, but you'll keep your hand in."

Hawkeye mumbled non-committedly and continued to stare frontwards.

With a sigh, Daniel tried again. "Look, Hawkeye – I don't know what went on in Korea, but don't think for a second you're not the first army medic to struggle to re-adjust to civilian practice. You're a bright, young doctor with a bright future ahead of you! You need to get back in the game! You can't stay on vacation forever! So… how about you give it a shot? At least call Boston and agree on a date to start back up! I'll set you up with a few appointments here just to ease you back in! Come on, what do you say? Give yourself a deadline. I can–"

"Would you just stop?!"

Daniel fell silent – more out of shock than anything else. He and his son rarely came to blows, so for Hawkeye to raise his voice like that, there must be something serious going on with him. Daniel wasn't sure whether to be angry or worried. He hesitated, somewhere between the two, and gradually veered towards the latter as Hawkeye's face fell and he stared downwards.

"Sorry," Hawkeye mumbled, picking at the blanket. "I just… I got a lot going on right now. I need a little time, that's all, to cool off, wash Korea out of my hair."

Time. Daniel frowned. Three weeks and no change, and his boy wanted more time? How much time could he need? How much liquor was he planning on getting through in the meantime? How long before Boston got tired of waiting and replaced him? Would there be another three weeks of languishing before he even began to make progress? And as for washing… Hawkeye's hair, along with the rest of him, had collected at least a week's worth of grime. "Well… if you're going to be here for a while, maybe you should unpack, huh? Might make you feel more at home? That stuff you're digging out of your closet reeks of mothballs, it's been in there so long."

Sniffing, Hawkeye tugged a little at his jersey, and turned back to the TV. "What can I say? I'm reliving my misspent youth. Then when I've outgrown that I'm gonna relive my misspent adulthood. I'm considering rolling straight into my misspent retirement, but I need to cultivate a few more grey hairs first. "

The tone in his voice did not go unnoticed: the one he always used when he was trying to make a joke to cover some kind of real hurt going on under the surface. But the ability to decipher the details or draw out an explanation was beyond Daniel's skill as a negotiator. "Right," was all he said, with a nod. And, with that, he left the room.

Hawkeye burrowed deeper into the nest he'd made for himself on the couch, and buried his nose in the fabric of his college football jersey. His dad was right – it did smell of mothballs. And the once-white material was now yellowed and musty. And it probably didn't help that he'd been living in it since he got back.

He never used to be sentimental over his brief-but-mediocre football career. He was a gangly but spritely kid who only got onto the team in '42 in due to a lot of the other guys getting drafted. He wasn't a great player, but sometimes he'd managed to get a fair distance up the field as long as none of the opposition managed to get anywhere near him. He would never have bothered to reminisce over that period of history were it not for a few words spoken in hushed tones in a wooden hut in Korea that now shed a whole new light on one of those games: the revelation that he'd caught someone's eye without ever knowing it. Someone who, by a bizarre coincidence, he'd run into in Korea almost ten years later…

Now, it seemed, the football jersey was one of the few mementoes he had for a relationship that had both changed his life and ruined it. He wasn't sure if he should frame it or burn it. So, until he decided, he would wear it.

It wasn't the only thing he clung to. Through the fabric of his football jersey, his fingers traced the outline of his dog tags, recalling the way the metal had left an imprint on Trapper's palm when he had grasped them, pulling Hawkeye close. He hadn't taken them off since he'd returned home.

A ripple of applause signalled the end of the TV show, and Hawkeye deigned to leave the warmth of his couch and his blanket for a few seconds to hit the switch. Lucille Ball's beaming face flickered and then vanished as the screen went black, and Hawkeye returned to his spot – but not before fetching a bottle of Scotch from the cabinet that had become his sole and constant source of comfort these past two weeks.

The bottle was almost empty. He'd have to buy more soon. And with what? Shoot – maybe he should start pulling some shifts at his dad's clinic. There was no way he'd be finding any other work any time soon.

He closed his eyes to the thought, pushing back the sting of tears, and poured himself a Scotch. He clutched the glass delicately between long fingers – surgeon's fingers – and rested his elbows heavily on his knees as he gazed into the tempting amber liquor. The enormity of his situation didn't bear thinking about, and he felt desperately, intolerably lonely. Nobody in this whole damned country knew what he was recovering from – except for one man. And that man had abandoned Hawkeye at the airport in Boston to fight his battle alone, getting into a car with his wife to try and piece his old life back together.

And still he wondered, in spite of himself, how Trapper was doing.

He shouldn't have gone there. He wanted to hate him. He wanted to just be angry. That would be so much simpler. But, instead, his anger and grief were mixed up with too much leftover affection. How could you be furious with someone and miss them, all at the same time? Would that warm glow of adoration fade eventually so he could just carry on with hating his guts? How many more weeks would he have to spend going misty-eyed over every corny memory of the man before some good old-fashioned loathing set in?

His thoughts snowballed as he sat there. Try as he might, he couldn't stop his grief from running away with him – he could only numb it with liquor and swallow the sobs that threatened to give away his fragile mental state. He took a long sip. The first tears of the evening fell, and Hawkeye let them come, lying back on the couch and flinging an arm across his face as if to hide. He had enough Scotch to get him through the night. And as for tomorrow… well, he'd worry about that when the morning came. Another swig, another tear. Lather, rinse repeat.

Upstairs, the elder Doctor Pierce hovered in between his own room and his son's. He had originally planned to turn in early – he'd had a ridiculously long day of clinic appointments and house calls – but worry over Hawkeye's state of mind was, he knew only too well, likely to keep him up for a few hours yet. Instead of heading for his own room, Daniel moved through to Hawkeye's.

The little bedroom was still very much as it had been through much of Hawkeye's childhood. The small bed was covered in a throw that Hawkeye and his late mother had embroidered with little sailboats. A few anatomy textbooks were still stacked on the desk from his college days, and old childhood toys were still hidden away in the corners, awaiting the arrival of grandchildren so that they might one day see some use once more. Over the years, this room had seen the adult Hawkeye at his most vulnerable. He had returned periodically after breakups and during the most challenging points of his medical school career. These walls with their faded paint had provided a backdrop to more tears, heartbreak and tantrums that Daniel would care to remember, and Daniel found himself reminiscing to another time in Hawkeye's life which seemed all too similar.

He'd had an inkling that Hawkeye had been living with a woman during his residency, but his suspicions were never confirmed until his son had returned from Boston unexpectedly in the summer of '47. The moping, the tears, and the late nights sat up in the dark listening to a scratched old record of some Betty Grable movie – it all suggested a broken heart, even before Hawkeye finally came clean. The similarity was so astounding, Daniel wondered if maybe there was a woman in Korea from whom Hawkeye was distraught to have been parted. It would make sense – his son was all cheeky grins and sly innuendo when it came to girls unless there were actual feelings involved.

He could be wrong, though. There was no movie soundtrack on the turntable of Hawkeye's little blue record player this time.

There were, however, some new additions to the room: Hawkeye's army footlocker and duffel bag were stacked against one wall, still packed, and not even opened.

Daniel shook his head. This was not the homecoming he had expected. He'd been waiting for months for Hawkeye to come bounding back to the Cove, full of enthusiasm. His letters always spoke of his eagerness to return home – not even to his job in Boston, but to Maine. It had been expected that he would take some time off and return to his home in the Cove, but not like this.

Daniel was at a loss. He didn't know how to begin to draw his problems out of him – he was a GP, not a shrink – and so, until Hawkeye opened up of his own accord, all Daniel could do was get him settled.

He hauled the large drawstring bag onto the bed and tugged it open. The smell of old socks washed over him, and Daniel made a note to have some stern words with his son on the matter of laundry and hygiene as he set about unpacking the fetid load. Alarmingly, on top of a collection of rancid socks and underwear, Hawkeye had shoved his Class A uniform.

Daniel pulled it out, laying it on the bed. It was crumpled, stained with sweat, and quite repulsive. He smoothed out the creases, feeling almost saddened at the sight. He had sensed in his son's letters that he had no regard for the army, but Daniel couldn't deny the little glimmer of pride he'd had when he'd first seen his boy in that uniform. Pride mixed with fear, he had to admit, but pride nonetheless. Daniel couldn't bear to see it bundled up with his dirty laundry like that. He retrieved the rest of it, determined to have it cleaned – even if Hawkeye didn't want it, he'd keep it.

He began to gather the pieces together, straightening and folding them. As he did, a slip of paper tumbled from the garments and fell onto the floor, rolling under Hawkeye's bed. Daniel bent to retrieve it. The paper brought a layer of dust up with it, and he brushed it off and smoothed it out from the rumpled mess it had been left in. As he did, he realised with some concern that he was looking at Hawkeye's discharge paper. He tutted and sighed at his carelessness. This shouldn't be shoved in here with his old socks – he might need it. Records were important. His employers would want to…

But, as Daniel scanned the words on the paper, it suddenly became painfully clear why Hawkeye had hidden it away in his luggage – and why he wasn't in a rush to return to Boston. Daniel found himself actually shaking – with what, he couldn't quite tell – but suddenly it made perfect sense why his clever, talented son had returned from Korea looking so utterly broken.

Hawkeye stared at the ceiling. He'd tried to close his eyes and sleep, but his mind kept stirring up images that were neither comforting nor cheerful. His thoughts spiralled out of control, and he swore under his breath, got up, and jabbed at the button on the front of the TV once more. Another show started up, and the laughter of the studio audience filled the silence of the little room, the blue-grey light casting an eerie, cold hue as Hawkeye descended once more to the couch. He stared with unfocused eyes at the screen, grateful for the noise to dull the pain of his own churning mind, and unscrewed the bottle once more.

As he did so, the sound of his father's footsteps on the stairs prompted him to stop. Panicking, he fumbled the lid back onto the Scotch and shoved it beneath the folds of his blanket, hiding it from sight, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.

As Daniel entered the room, Hawkeye tried not to react. He felt like he was being scrutinised. He shuddered slightly and the hair stood up on the back of his neck. "I thought you were going to bed."

"I was." Daniel's voice wasn't giving anything away. His eyes flickered towards the empty glass on the coffee table, but he said nothing.

Hawkeye shifted and pushed his bottle a little deeper into the blanket. He couldn't face the lecture.

Daniel hovered in the doorway for a minute or so, watching Hawkeye watching the television. He hesitated, seeming to debate whether to leave, stay, or settle in for the show. Eventually he went with the latter, pulling up a chair and sitting a couple of feet away. "What are we watching?"

Blinking at the TV, Hawkeye shrugged. "Not sure. It can't be a gameshow, because this guy hasn't asked any questions yet. But it can't be cabaret because he hasn't told a single joke." The audience laughed at some inane quip, and the host smirked at his own appalling gag. "That doesn't count - those people have no taste. This is entertainment? I've attended autopsies that were more fun." Hawkeye wrinkled his nose. The whole thing reminded him of the corny shows the army used to put on for them. Then that in turn reminded him of how he and Trapper used to sneak away from the show under the pretence of 'checking on the patients', and he had to close his eyes to hold back the tears again.

"Hawkeye?"

His father's voice broke through his melancholy, and he grunted in response.

"I'm worried about you."

"Are we back on this again? I told you – I'll be fine! It's not worth you losing any sleep over, really!"

"There's something you're not telling me."

The grief he was holding back threatened to morph into anger, and Hawkeye shook slightly under his blanket. "There's a lot I'm not telling you! I've been away for a year – there's a lot to tell. But if I start now we'll be up for hours, and you told me never to stay up late on a school night." His light-hearted tone cracked around the edges with desperation as he once again evaded the question, and his voice was creeping up in volume. Daniel sighed. Hawkeye stared intently at the television, but out of the corner of his eye he watched his father unfold a piece of paper and smooth it out flat. And the next words that the older man spoke caused a shiver up his spine that he couldn't hide.

"I found your discharge papers."

Hawkeye bit his lip. He risked a glance in his father's direction, but didn't dare look him in the eye. He turned for a fraction of a second – just long enough to snatch the papers out of his hands – and then glanced away again to hide his face, shaking. He scanned the damning words on the top page – 'undesirable discharge' – and folded the paper in half, and in half again. "Yeah, well, I always said I wasn't army material. I'm too headstrong. And I like to sleep in. And I hate green." He stuffed the paper into the blanket beside the Scotch bottle, hiding it, as if he could just hide away the blot on his record, silently pleading with whatever deities might be listening for his father to leave him alone.

Daniel sat beside him in silence for a few seconds. Hawkeye squeezed his eyes closed, pressing a hand to his head. His skull throbbed. Sweat prickled his brow, and when Daniel spoke next, he wanted to run from the room.

"Hawkeye, I know what they use those papers for. They might not print them on blue paper any more, but it's still common knowledge. I may be a civilian but I'm not totally uninformed. So unless you'd care to tell me anything different–"

"I don't care to tell you anything at all!" Rising from the couch, Hawkeye turned and glared at him. His voice came out louder than he'd intended, and his fingernails were digging angry red crescents into his palms. "Don't you think I'd have said something already if I did? But no, instead of respecting that, you had to go rummaging through my stuff! Well, I hope you're proud that you figured me out! Congratulations, Pop! Carry on like this and you just might make detective!" He was furious – not at his father, but at this whole rotten system – and he couldn't hold back any more. He had weeks of rage just begging for a target, and seeing as he couldn't let rip on the United States Armed Forces, his poor father would have to do. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew it was unfair, but this invasion of privacy was the final straw.

Daniel didn't shout back. He didn't even raise his voice. He just sat there with that damned unreadable expression on his face. "I was trying to help."

"You want to help? I'll tell you how you can help! Don't!"

As Hawkeye spat the words out with an unfamiliar venom, Daniel bristled. Now he looked angry. "Well, maybe instead of lying in your own filth and drinking your way through my entire liquor supply, you should try talking to me sometime!"

"I don't want to talk about this!" And, as if to punctuate his point, Hawkeye ran.

"And don't you dare slam the-"

The door hit the jamb with a satisfying thud. Hawkeye half sprinted and half stumbled up the stairs, his feet pounding on the stairs as a sharp ache began to pound in his skull. His face burned, his eyes stung with tears of shame. He couldn't take this! He would gladly stand proud and rally fiercely against Army Officers or any other nameless, pompous, arrogant ass who tried to shame him or insult him or label him as a subversive – or worse. But not his father. He couldn't bear the thought of seeing that disapproval in his dad's eyes; of seeing him shudder in disgust at his son. Hawkeye had fought to keep this secret from him ever since he'd set his first timid, adolescent foot into this world, and to have his efforts torn down, along with everything else, by a piece of paper was too much for him to take. He hated this. Hated it.

He reached the sanctuary of his room, kicking the door closed behind him. Now, he surveyed the chaos that was his bedroom. His bag was open, his clothes spread out on his bed. The stench of three-week-old dirty laundry was repulsive, but it wasn't the smell that was making him nauseous: His hiding place had been compromised, his privacy violated by his well-meaning father. This place no longer felt safe. He had nowhere left that did.

Furious, Hawkeye kicked the bag out of the way and into the closet, slamming the door on the untidy mess, and crawled into his bed, his worst fears realised as he tried desperately to process the implications of what had just happened. His breath caught in his chest, the words "Goddamn it..." spluttering into his pillow. He felt like he'd been holding back for weeks, but, suddenly, there was no point in hiding any more. There was nothing left to hide.

Release felt strangely cleansing. He knew his father would hear, but he couldn't bring himself to care anymore. It was the first time he had dared cry out loud since he'd returned home.

Downstairs, Daniel Pierce sat shaking in the wake of his son's explosive departure. Casting a glance over to the couch, he saw the paper that had started it all slowly unfurl itself from the mess into which it had been crumpled between the couch cushions. Beside it, sat an almost-empty bottle of Scotch. With an anxious, shaking hand, Daniel reached over and plucked the near-empty bottle from the cushions. He needed a drink.