Of My Answers

by Adenil

Based on the events of Fade Out, Fade In, with some spoilers mentioned. What did Frank say to Hawkeye during that final phone call, and how did it affect Hawkeye later in life?

Penname: Adenil

Title: Of My Answers

Pairing: Hawkeye/Frank

Rating: G

Author's notes: I've wanted to write this fic since I was a little kid. It started out much different from this final result, but I like to think the idea evolved as I matured. I ended up slamming it out at 4:00 in the morning, but I still like it. And thanks to Katelynnlynn for the Beta!

Synopsis: Based on the events of Fade Out, Fade In, with some spoilers mentioned. What did Frank say to Hawkeye during that final phone call, and how did it affect Hawkeye later in life?

/////

His hand was poised, raised in a curved fist with dull nails biting into his palm. He could see the door only through the small space where his knuckles dipped down and skin met soft skin. It should have been easy to knock, but it wasn't.

Soft wind curled through his hair, pushing the poignant smell of daises into him, making him aware of how much care the good little house-wife had put into the small garden in the front lawn. It was a beautiful smell, and it made his world real, if only for a moment.

All he had to do was stretch a little farther and let gravity pull his fisted hand down onto the metal door. A metal door, because wood was not expensive enough, would never be expensive enough for Frank Burns.

There was the name. The name that brought a thousand memories to him, loudly pushing away the smells of daisies and the hot sun. Frank.

And he remembered how Frank was the lip-less wonder, ferret face, and a blundering fool. Yet, somehow, none of those. Yet, somehow, as Margaret had found for a short time, more. Hawkeye wanted to know the more, too.

He remembered the first meeting; Frank hating him and him hating Frank. All the meetings in between, full of strange tension and a war torn need for something that could never, ever be. But the last meeting, hurried excitement over the telephone…that was what brought Hawkeye here today.

It wasn't the context, at least not at first—Frank promoted, Frank shipped back home, and how happy he'd been, and could Hawkeye please pass on a few messages for him?—no, it wasn't that context. It was the last, hurriedly spoken, that Hawkeye remembered.

Frank had been so excited; Hawkeye was certain that the words had slipped out without Frank even noticing their passage. Hawkeye noticed. Hawkeye would never forget.

"I'll see you around, eh, Hawk? I love you."

Then, click, the phone disconnected and drove Hawkeye away with a head full of questions that had no answers because the answers were just so far away. And Hawkeye had feigned a few more moments of conversation, for his audience's sake, before finally hanging up as well.

If it had been flippant, it wouldn't have mattered. If it had been joking, it wouldn't have mattered. If it had come from anyone else, anyone who Hawkeye knew enough to construe the words to mean something that they didn't mean… Well, then it wouldn't have even registered.

But they meant something. Something that drove Hawkeye to find the answers here, at the house Frank had bragged so much about. The war was over, Korea a not so far distant memory but Frank farther still, and Hawkeye had not forgotten Frank's parting words. How could he forget?

"I love you."

He knocked on the door.

/////

Three taps and he paused, waiting. It wouldn't do for him to seem over-eager, impatient even. Just three taps, then wait.

Someone had to be home. Someone had to hear.

A shift, thump, and the door slid open. An irritated looking woman appeared. She blinked at him.

"Yes?"

"Is Frank Burns in?"

She paused, looking confused, then, inexplicably, she burst into laughter.

"Oh, honey, I'm afraid you'd better come in."

And she ushered him into the house. The house was too big, too lavish, simply too much. He didn't like it, and he wished Frank had never thought that he needed a house so big.

Because really, he didn't. He was fine without this too much.

"I was just getting dinner started." She bustled into a kitchen decked out with all the latest and greatest things that Hawkeye was sure no one should ever need.

It's only one o'clock, he thought randomly. "I'm sorry to have bothered you."

"No, no it's all right." She looked at him, really looked at him for what seemed to be the first time. Appraisal was deep within her, but also humor and a touch of something bigger than what could be seen. "You must be one of the men Frank knew from the war?"

Hawkeye blinked, nodding. "Yes, I am. We were in the same MASH unit." How did she know so soon? Was Frank's list of acquaintances so small that she knew it by heart? "The 4077th," he added unnecessarily, yet still it was a requirement.

She nodded. "Mm-hmm." And smiled. "Well, you've sort of come to the right place, if you'd been a few years earlier."

Was Frank…? Terror, was it clear on Hawk's face? He couldn't even think the words that would draw Frank away from him, draw the answers away from him.

"We divorced three years ago."

Ah. Brilliant, terror gone. Frank was still alive. Strange how he could think of life and not of its absence. Strange.

"I'm sorry, I didn't know."

"It isn't your fault," she went on to say, bustling about and somehow appearing with a glass of water that she handed him. "I, at least, have moved on. I am now Mrs. Donald Anderson." She seemed oddly proud. Hawkeye wondered if he should know that name. Was it a famous doctor?

He'd been away so long, he couldn't possibly know.

"I'm glad to hear that." The glass of water sat cold and dead in his hands. What did she expect him to do with it?

"You don't have to act glad for my sake." She laughed. It was an ugly laugh. Was this really the woman from Frank's wedding video, harsh and overbearing? She seemed lighter, but not in a good way. "You must have been a friend of his?"

"You could say that." Saying it didn't make it true. It just meant that Hawkeye thought about it more, louder. They could have been friends. Maybe then he would have realized and gotten answers before there were questions.

"Anyway," she said in harsh clipped tones. Hawkeye wished he could simply leave, and forget all about his journey to this house that had once been Frank's. "You're obviously looking for him. I've got his address somewhere…"

She disappeared, and Hawkeye was left alone, leaning against the small island in the kitchen and clutching the glass of water in a desperate attempt to save himself. He needed to be saved.

She was back, a piece of paper clutched in her clawed hand. Hawkeye took it, abandoning his glass of water, still untasted. He was sure it would taste like chemicals.

"He lives a few hours away," she explained. "But frankly I don't care where he lives so long as I get my check in the mail each month."

Odd thoughts; Hadn't Frank married her for her money? No answers. He didn't need answers for these questions; they weren't as loud as the others.

"I love you."

He thanked her for her time, and he left.

/////

It was probably a sign, he thought as he clutched his Martini—never could get over that sickening dry taste, could we Hawk?—that he was here, in a bar, and not looking for Frank.

He sipped his drink. It didn't sting as nicely as the freshly stilled Swamp toxins had stung. So long ago, yet still fresh in his mind.

The paper was sitting on the bar, folded unobtrusively, waiting.

He wanted to open it, look at it, but he didn't. Somehow this was too much. He was just supposed to go to Frank's house, see that he was still happily (unhappily?) married, and then not be bothered by his questions. They wouldn't matter if they weren't true. It wouldn't matter if Frank didn't truly mean what he had said, hurriedly, before hanging up the phone.

Had he been afraid he wouldn't have the courage to say it?

Slowly Hawkeye turned the conversation over and over again in his mind. It was well worn from much studying, but still crisp and clear at the edges where it counted. He hadn't seemed afraid, and Hawkeye discarded the question quickly, as he had before.

Always the same questions.

The Martini was gone. He didn't ask for a second round, and when the bartender returned he shook him off.

He had nothing. Some money in his pocket and the clothes he was wearing. After he'd met Frank he was going to—what? Go home, that was the first thought. See if his bags had arrived from Korea. Change from his well worn civvies.

Strange how he still thought of them as civvies, even here surrounded by civilians. Always civvies? They'd simply been his escape, and now they'd moved to the realm of something he didn't understand.

Questions about himself. He ignored them.

He had money to go into town. A bus fare, but not much else. He probably shouldn't have bought the Martini, but he slid the fare onto the bar top and left the darkened room. Frank's address came with him unconsciously.

Frank's house—not Frank, just his house and his not-quite wife—were in the country. Quiet, quaint suburbs that were just enough on the edge of hustle and bustle to be on the outside, but yet not enough.

Frank's address was—finally Hawkeye opened it, looking at the cursive writing and wishing it could somehow transport him to the destination imbedded in the curves of ink—in the city. Apartment number. Frank lived in an apartment.

Strange. Strange…more questions arising from all the strange.

He found the bus stop, waiting, waiting, waiting until finally the bus arrived, heading for the city, and Hawkeye leapt on without a second thought.

Still questions. He'd thought the answers were close, but they had been ripped away.

"I'll see you around, eh, Hawk?"

Answers closing in. Questions still nestled in his chest, stiffly drinking away his edges and leaving nothing behind.

/////

Five dollars to his name. And wandering, so much wandering.

He had more money, but it was all tied up in the First National Bank Of … he didn't care of what; he just knew he couldn't access it here, in the big city.

Asking directions would have released the dam that kept in all his questions. He couldn't ask directions. He needed to keep all his questions close, protecting them.

Everything was tall, all of the buildings brushing against blue sky and leaving huge tears in the expanse of forever.

Had he found it? Question. Answers, yes. Frank was here.

Too many stairs to count, though he desperately wanted to count them. Take his mind off

of the answers. Another dead end? No, a true path, perhaps.

This door was wooden.

He found himself poised in the same fashion as earlier, only now he could not breathe. Frank was behind that door, Frank. Not his wife who had not actually been his wife, but Frank. Frank was there, and Frank was answers.

He was suddenly stricken with the thought that this was all a terrible, terrible idea. Had he ever really wanted answers anyway? No. Yes. No.

He had to knock. Hawkeye had to know what Frank had meant.

Friendship? Companionship? Casual nothing? Something deep, deeper than deep, that Hawkeye wasn't afraid to share in, too? He wanted to know.

Knock, he told himself. Knock. Knock…knock.

His fist crashed down before he had the chance to stop it and he winced as the sound danced down the hallway, echoing into nothingness and everything.

Three knocks, one more for good measure, then the waiting.

A tired slide of the foot on the other side of the door—still time to run—the sound of the lock being drawn from its place, Frank opening the door and gazing at him sleepily, uncomprehending.

Frank blinked, confusion. He looked good. Not evil, as Hawkeye last remembered him. But grown up with a weight on his shoulders that spoke volumes about nothing.

"What—Hawkeye?"

And then Frank smiled, and that was suddenly all the answers Hawkeye could ever need.