Title: "(Just stand, be still, I want to see in your eyes what path we're on) As From Now On"
Author: scap3goat
Pairing: Hawkeye/Mulcahy
Rank, er... Rating: Captain (just... because...) - That's T for
Category: Vignette, Angst
Disclaimer: MASH is unfortunately not mine. But it couldn't be anyway. I wasn't born when it first aired, for example... I nicked bits and pieces from Shakespeare, too. Now, he was dead waaaaaay before I was born.
Notes: My first MASH fic ever. I listened to that song tonight (German song I considered to be a Doctor Who song...) and suddenly there was that idea. Not even an idea. The song just made me write. It started out as some goofy trivia about my psycho-ideas for my LJ but after two sentences he was innit. I switched to Manson's version of "Suicide is painless". Used the other song for writing again, though. XD
Not beta-read. Bear with me or volunteer.

Can you imagine that listening to a song over and over again can wear you out almost the way it wears out the record? Or maybe that was just him imagining him that the song had some new slower and faster pieces after he'd played it for about four dozen times.

But, anyway, the song was etched into his heart, his memories tied to it, sewed to it. A good, clean suture that was. Almost a surgeon's work. He laughed at the irony of it all and sipped at his Swamp Martini. Yes, he had... it was his doing, had been his all along. He'd cut his own... he'd cut his own heart open to see what was inside of it and when he'd tried to stitch it up again he had been so terrified he had forgotten the song inside, like a sponge sometimes was almost forgot after a cut-around-the-clock session in OR.
But this time he had had no nurse to tell him that he had miscounted taking them out. He hadn't dared to tell anyone. Let alone a nurse.

He started giggling. He had no idea why, he just did. After a few minutes he was laughing so hard he thought he might suffocate if he laughed just a second longer, wondered if he'd be able to draw in a lung full of air or if his body would just refuse to take the vital oxygen in. He hoped it would. He hoped he would laugh himself to death.
Not that it had been funny what he laughed about.

"No"

He might as well have cried. Maybe the tears on his face meant that he would break down crying now. Maybe he could cry himself to death if he tried hard enough? You could cry yourself to sleep, right? And death was just a very, very fast sleep.

He had touched something so divine, too divine to ever be touched with greedy, dirty little fingers like his. The holy grail.

"No"

No. Nononononono. It wasn't that. Damnit! Where was the right picture? It was... the ark. The ark of the covenant, he had touched the ark. He was supposed to be struck down by God's wrath now. He felt he should be, but he couldn't feel it.
He couldn't see it in Francis' eyes, either. He could see remorse in his posture, regret in the way he held his head down most of the time, guilt in the quiet talks to the wounded in post-OP, I'm sorry, for I have sinned I may not be able to lift your sins off you, but I hope He will forgive us both in time written all across in-between the lines.

"No"

A laugh, quick and painful. A pause. Laughter again, followed by sobs. How could he? He'd known a Priest (for God's sake - for whom else's? - a Priest!) was off-limits.

"No."

He had known that this Priest was off-limits. No one could, should do anything to Father Francis J. Mulcahy. Especially not the one person the Father had the courage to confess to.
Remorseful, regretting, guilty. I'm sorry, for I have sinned I may not be able to lift your sins off you, but I hope He will forgive us both in time.
But, damnit, what about that look in his eyes?

"There's rosemary, that's for remembrance; pray, love,
remember: and there is pansies, that's for thoughts."

Their eyes had met during surgery today and they... that blue looking at him had called out with at him. It had spoken of such gentle words. Not remorse, nor regret, nor guilt clouded the skies - heaven.

"There's fennel for you, and columbines: there's rue for you;
and here's some for me: we may call it herb of grace o'
Sundays: O, you must wear your rue with a difference."

What? What had happened that second, split second, he'd looked into those gorgeous blue eyes again? Unable to say a word, unable to think, unable to understand. Sheer love. No forgiveness, no need to forgive. He had wanted to ask, to call into the crowded OR, but he couldn't because it was only a split second and his patient's ateria femoralis burst and both of them were busy doing what they were best at. Saving a life and praying that this boy would get a second chance.

"There's a daisy: I would give you some violets, but they wither'd all when
my father died: they say he made a good end..."

No. He didn't. All blue eyes and sturdy faith the Father met an end he had never called for.
Hawkeye's gut turned into a tight ball of need. He needed, he needed...

"Fuck you, Francis."

It was said in hoarse voice. Only a whisper. He still clamped one hand in front of his mouth and bit his tongue as if he could take it back, stifle the sound afterwards. Still...

"Not the ark. The forbidden fruit..."

He'd tasted what God hadn't meant for men. Mankind. Whatever.
He'd tasted the sweet knowledge of more. He had taken a bite but only enough to leave him with a curious desire to want more and a guilty concious the size of Europe. Geographic, not the part that was tolerated as good little capitalists.
More. He wanted more. He needed more. But he knew that he couldn't do that. He'd tasted the fruit, it was too late, but he would kill anyone - especially himself - who'd come too close to this precious fruit ever again.

"I told you, Frank! Lying on his cot minding his own business."
"I bet he's plotting something or getting drunk."
"Maybe both things at the same time. Hey, Hawkeye, whatcha doing?"

"Nothing."

Nothing, really. Minding my own business. Don't you dare to want to know. He's mine. No. Not true. Not right. He isn't, he can't be!

"The way you're looking I'd say you're getting drunk for being in love. But not infamous Hawkeye Pierce, right?"

"Right."

Wrong.
It was all so wrong and he wondered... he wondered if praying could make it better. He wondered if Francis might say a few Hail Mary's every evening and sleep peacefully.
He couldn't! Could he? He must mind, somehow. He must, if only for the fact...
Useless.
A song etched into his heart. The record played so many times it broke a few days ago. Heard so often he didn't have to play the record to remember.

END