Mad World
Chapter 3 – The Dreams in Which I'm Dying
By: OneSongKatie
Hawkeye was lying halfway, dangling his feet over the edge and staring morosely at the ceiling of Margaret's tent. He blinked, noting with muddled interest the blurred spots at the fringes of his vision.
He leaned his head back against the wall of the tent and tried to focus his eyes. When that seemed finally impossible, he gave up and sat motionless, content to merely watch the vaguely outlined objects surrounding him in the gloom.
It was dark, though he could just make out odd shadow shapes shifting in between the beams.
He was drunk.
Hawkeye could feel the thickness of the alcohol dutifully trudging through his veins. Slowly, ever so slowly erasing his consciousness and replacing it with a viscous fog of muted edges in dark and light.
How drunk? Drunk enough to have forgotten what he'd been saying a moment ago, he supplied. He had a vague notion it was about something important. Or did he? Had he even been talking? Maybe it was a dream. But then again, his dreams had been of a slightly more threatening breed lately, so that probably wasn't it.
Talking and thinking and hallucinating all began to resonate the same way inside his head and Hawkeye couldn't remember anymore.
He closed his eyes, trying to scratch through the haze in his mind long enough to have a clear notion of what had occurred this night.
They'd walked back to his tent after someone came to Post-Op to replace them. Who it was he couldn't say. Just some faceless person—their features an impressionist blob of line and color.
How strange, he marveled, that these last months had begun to resemble an oil painting in his head, in which the figures and images now ran together in blurry stripes. The outline was there, the form, the structure, but no identifiable content.
The world around him was gradually turning gray in his mind. The thought ought to have terrified him. Mostly he felt numb. Which was actually an improvement, he decided bemusedly, on deathly afraid and miserable.
Anyway, Hawkeye thought, that's when they'd started drinking. He couldn't really recall now any other details. It didn't matter in any case.
He didn't know why, but he'd felt then it was something of a festive occasion. No one had died in the hours they'd sat in Post-Op! Cheers.
But then somehow they'd ended up here. He and she had. Margaret. It was odd. By all rights, he ought to be sprawled on his cot at this moment, trying to sleep before the dread whirring of chopper blades returned. No, wait, Hawkeye corrected. That was wrong.
Sleep was bad. He was avoiding sleep.
Sleep meant only fear and death, and dreams far worse than any war-torn reality—even this one.
But it was hard to recall any of that now. The oil painting business.
When Hawkeye pondered the merits of sleeping, he liked to consider it a habit he'd kicked. It somehow seemed less maudlin that way. And damn clever too, he mused, smiling crookedly to himself. Mostly, thinking of sleep in clinical terms made him feel better about the fear.
Fear of what, exactly? He paused, running his tongue over the edges of his teeth, recognizing the buzzing sensation that only accompanies extreme inebriation.
Where to begin? Fear of nightmares, fear of waking up and still being in Korea, fear of not waking up at all, fear of…but his thoughts tapered off.
And now he was here, with her.
Surely, there was a crack in there somehow about how things must really be taking a turn for the catastrophic, considering he'd ended up with her.
Hawkeye sighed. He wasn't nearly sober enough to fully address the irony of it all right now. The strangeness of it. Of them.
He glanced out of the corner of his vision to where she sat without turning his head, seeking her motionless form out with bleary eyes. Losing focus he then smiled sadly at the ceiling. His world was turning gray but she still seemed to stand out in brilliant, light color.
He liked that. He smiled to himself. Margaret was his color.
He was struck suddenly, by the faint words of a song he didn't entirely recollect. Strange words in a different language.
Kyrie Elaison.
The translation came to him as if from nowhere: Lord have mercy.
And from that same dark, obscure corner of his mind there appeared a very old, very clear memory.
He closed his eyes against the sharpness of the image.
When he was very young his mother used to make him go to church with her. Hawkeye smiled unfocusedly, remembering. He was beginning to enjoy not seeing in muted tones, even if only for a fleeting moment of memory.
The musty smell of the old, stone building. He breathed in deeply trying to recall every detail. Streams of colored light filtering through the stained glass of windows.
He blinked, realizing something about the brightness reminded him of Margaret. Or Margaret reminded him of it.
He didn't know anymore whether those kinds of boundaries existed within his consciousness. He closed his eyes again, remembering. Recreating.
He hadn't thought about church in a long time.
Hawkeye always asked why his father never went with them—insisted on knowing why his father didn't have to go! But his mother would simply smile at him, squeeze his hand, and say this was their special day, just for them.
Hawkeye felt very sad remembering his mother's smile. Sometimes when he closed his eyes he could still see it. It remained like a tiny point of light in his mind, the memory always whispering underneath his thoughts, as if to remind him of some kind of hope he'd forgotten.
And so he went to Sunday Mass. Damn near every weekend, he recalled wistfully.
Not because he wanted to, or really even enjoyed the service. He didn't understand much of it, and he was always hot and bored.
Hawkeye cringed a little, knowing how petulant a child he'd been. He'd hated being ordered to do anything. And he realized with only mild annoyance, nothing had changed in that regard.
It's possible that he acted more like a child here in this present than back then, anyway, Hawkeye only half-joked to himself.
But something made him go with his mother all those years ago. Something which won over his everlasting obstinacy.
He wanted to be with her.
Maybe even then, even as a child, he'd somehow understood that time was short. But then, time was always too short with his mother. Ancient feelings of regret and dulled grief washed over him, and he knew in that moment that some things don't ever go away. Some memories never totally fade to black.
Going to church meant being with her.
He knew it now.
And he'd heard those words sung. The Kyrie Elaison. He didn't understand what they were singing at the time. How could he? What does a child know about divine mercy? Or circumstances necessitating it, for that matter.
But the sound the words produced was mournful and beautiful. Something that puzzled him, wounded and infused him.
The achingly graceful notes meant more things to him—to his childhood perceptions of beauty and love and what life could be—than he'd then been able to articulate with the voice of a child.
And yet, he couldn't find the words now, either. He frowned.
Maybe some things can never really translate, he decided. Maybe even listening is an act of translation.
Then she died, and Hawkeye never went to church again.
He rolled onto his side to face Margaret, who was blearily watching the ceiling next to him. She sat in a similar position—leaning back against the wall, her legs dangling to the floor. He noted hers dangled significantly farther from the ground than his, and smiled. He liked how small she was.
He was vaguely aware of one of her hands resting on the back of his neck. He turned his head a little into her palm for a moment. Hawkeye used the momentum from this to lean slightly toward her face.
"Do you understand?" He asked her seriously. His thoughts were blurry and for a split second he wondered if he had in fact asked her out loud.
Hawkeye thought his chances were pretty good. He'd been mixing himself up less and less lately, so, odds were he genuinely had vocalized. Maybe.
If she said yes, he'd know.
Margaret was nodding slowly, still staring unfocusedly at the ceiling. Hawkeye frowned at her. She wasn't listening.
He slowly, deliberately reached toward her and rolled her to face him. Immediately, where his fingertips gently gripped her neck he felt a surge of electricity. Trying to ignore the shiver that ran through his body at the sensation, he leaned forward.
"Margaret, do you understand?" He asked again, beginning to grow impatient. She looked puzzled. Hawkeye leaned farther forward to look into her eyes so he could be sure she would hear him.
"Kyrie Elaison." He told her, trying to make her understand how important it was. He clasped her shoulder with his other hand, shaking her a little.
"Kyrie Elaison," he repeated more loudly, slowly, extending the syllables, accenting the foreign sounding tones. Margaret furrowed her eyebrows at him for a moment.
He had to stop the corners of his mouth from turning upward at the gesture. Dammit. She was distracting him.
This was important and she was going to make him forget everything but her. Again. He could already feel the desire to lose himself in her rising in his brain, elevated by her closeness, by the way he breathed in the scent of her hair.
It was intoxicating, the need. He could feel blood pumping beneath his fingertips where they lightly touched her skin and the desire to run his hands over more of her was growing too maddening to halt.
No. Hawkeye stopped his thoughts, trying to control the quickening beat of his heart. He'd realized something imperative and he needed to focus.
She smiled a little, nodding as if she understood. Hawkeye grinned at her, and it was all he could do not cover her mouth with his. They were so close, he could feel her breath on his face, feel the warmth of her body turned toward his. He ignored the electric current now running palpably between them.
"See?" He asked, still smiling widely. Margaret nodded enthusiastically. Hawkeye couldn't handle it anymore. She was too close to him, was all around him, and her smell was making him dizzy, spiraling his drunken senses out of control, into orbit.
He looked down and saw Margaret gazing at him with an expression on her face that he was certain he had never seen directed his way at work before. It looked like...hunger.
When Margaret absently licked her lips Hawkeye could feel his eyes darken as his gaze followed her tongue.
One moment her own tongue was licking her lips and suddenly there was a warm, wet mouth on Margaret's, a tongue slipping its way inside, hands pulling her against a firm masculine body.
He kissed her mouth lightly, immediately trying to retrace the path her tongue had just cut. He felt her smile against his lips, and used the opportunity to deepen the kiss further, loving the feeling of her satiny tongue next to his.
Her hands were everywhere, running over his chest, tangled in his hair, clasping the sides of his face. In response Hawkeye traced the lines of her back urgently with his fingers through the cotton of her thin t-shirt. Delightful shivers rewarded his explorations. He loved how sensitive Margaret was to touch, his touch.
Hawkeye quickly found the hem of Margaret's shirt and pulled it over her head letting his mouth follow it along her skin. He felt Margaret rest both of her hands on his chest and curl her fingers to let her nails bite into his skin, as his mouth ravaged the side of her neck. The moan from her throat sent his blood rushing even faster through his veins.
Hawkeye reached down and grabbed Margaret's hands and placed them up around his neck as he quickly unfastened the clasp of her bra. Pulling her arms around his neck tight, he was able to move even closer to her, plastering himself hard up against her from shoulder to groin.
Hawkeye felt himself spiraling into the atmosphere, beyond reach. He didn't care anymore. Margaret raised herself up on her elbows and maneuvered her body onto his until she was straddling his hips. For a split second their eyes met and he was momentarily halted by the dark expression in her eyes. He couldn't move.
She brought her mouth down to his once again and the momentum they'd briefly lost regained its feverish pitch. He felt an immediate rush of relief when her body returned to his. God he needed her to be closer.
Hawkeye reached up and pulled her body down until there was no longer any space between them, relishing the sensation of being buoyed to the cot beneath them. When he felt Margaret's teeth on his shoulders his eyes rolled back in his head.
Hours later, when he awoke once more the tent was silent and still. He looked at the ceiling for the second time that night, only this time he could see without squinting. Hawkeye sighed, feeling the effects of the alcohol dissipate with each passing moment.
Sober again. He thought sullenly. Let the fun begin.
He inhaled slowly, feeling Margaret's breath against his shoulder. At least he'd been able to get some sleep. These past few hours had been the most sleep in…he couldn't calculate, couldn't remember the last time he'd been unconscious for that amount of consecutive time.
So that was something. Hawkeye sighed.
He glanced down at Margaret's face where it rested on his shoulder. She had one arm slung over him, as if holding him there—keeping him there—even in sleep. He couldn't help but smile watching the seriousness of her features. Her pale, delicate skin shone in the dim light, contrasting starkly with the darker shades of his chest. In this light, he could barely see the dark circles under her eyes.
He liked this, liked waking up before her. It felt like winning somehow, being the one awake. Being able to watch her as much as he liked without worrying that somehow weakness would be construed and he would be vulnerable—open to attack. Hawkeye pulled the Army blanket up more tightly around them.
Here, in the brief period of time when darkness and light existed at once, he felt oddly peaceful. Maybe because, as he was right now, lying with Margaret in the silence of her tent, blood spattered scrubs were but a dim memory. But a small voice in his head reminded him it couldn't last.
He closed his eyes tightly against the thought, shifting slightly. When he opened his eyes again, he realized that Margaret was watching him from under heavy, half-closed eyelids.
"Hi." She said quietly when he met her gaze.
Hawkeye smiled thinly at her, and realizing for the first time how cold he was, reached around her to where his t-shirt rested on the table. He put the shirt on, trying not to jostle her too much. He eased back against wall, and without realizing, he tightened his arms around them.
When he stopped moving she settled back down on him, resting her chin on his shoulder once more. He watched her for a moment, watched her lying there.
He realized more and more that despite how much smaller in stature Margaret was compared to him, there was a strength to her body, a touch of iron. You could see it in the lines of her back, the movement of thin strong muscles under her silky pale skin. He chuckled inwardly. She didn't just take it. She gave it back with so much passion it was a shock to think it could reside in that small frame. He knew this for a fact.
Margaret leaned her head in against him just over his heart, and seemed to be listening to its rapid, reassuring beat. It was keeping time to some music that always seemed to exist between them. She rested her palm flat against his broad chest and exhaled a contented little sigh.
"What?" He rumbled softly.
"I can hear your heart," she whispered. He paused at that.
"I expect you can." He drawled slowly, unsure.
Margaret considered this. "Hawkeye, before, I think I was sleeping to the sound of it," she stopped a moment and then added almost inaudibly, "and I felt safe. It's been a long time, feels like an eternity."
It was always too easy to get lost in the sensation of her hands roaming softly over his chest and the soothing feel of her. He wished now he hadn't put his shirt back on.
"Margaret, do you believe in God?" He asked quietly, enjoying the way her hands felt on his skin.
He didn't know why he asked her that. What was it about her that made him say things he didn't dare even to say to himself?
"I think I used to. But now?" She paused, thinking. "Now…now, it's hard to look beyond all of this." Her voice sounded small, sad. He cocked his head to watch her and wondered if Margaret would recover from this war. Not for the first time, he marvelled at how much she'd changed in the time they'd known each other.
"Yeah." He replied, still watching her face, wishing she'd say something else.
"Do you?" Her question caught him off-guard. He looked at her for a long time.
"It's funny." He said, aware that it really wasn't at all. "I've never really considered it all that much, and now, well…"
"The Kyrie Elaison?" She supplied, fixing him with a bemused look. He looked back at her sharply. She continued, "Before, you were trying to make me understand something, I think. You kept saying it: Kyrie Elaison."
He didn't say anything, just stared back at her, wondering how much he wanted to really disclose. The extent to which he was slowly losing his mind, perhaps? That same, small nudging voice from earlier suggested.
"I've been having these dreams lately." Hawkeye blurted out to stem the voice. He realized what he'd revealed. Well, hell. Now I have to go on or she'll think I'm already completely off the deep end, he berated himself.
He exhaled slowly before continuing. "About my mother." He stopped, that wasn't altogether true. "Well, sort of," he amended. "She's part of it." He stopped, trying to gauge Margaret's reaction.
She nodded. "Dreams about your mother? That's not so bad." Margaret nudged, rubbing his arm encouragingly. He looked away and felt his face darken.
At his silence, Margaret continued. "Do you think about her a lot?"
"I hadn't thought about her in a long time." He wondered suddenly if perhaps that was the problem.
"You don't…mention her much." Margaret was saying, drawing him back to the present. "No, I don't." He agreed, his mind elsewhere, remembering.
Margaret seemed unsure about how to respond. "I'm at her funeral." He provided, trying not to betray too much emotion in his voice. "In the dreams, I go to her funeral."
Margaret raised her eyebrows expectantly and remained respectfully silent, waiting for him to continue. He willed his voice to remain level. "And tonight, I remembered going to church with her when I was a little kid. I remembered what she told me about the Kyrie."
He halted, raising his eyebrows at Margaret indicatively. He vaguely remembered her as being some religion or other, possibly Catholic. Hawkeye waited for a glimmer of acknowledgement, intuitively assuming Margaret knew what he was talking about. She nodded at him, understanding.
He stared at the ceiling and exhaled heavily before admitting, "I liked it. It was so sad. But I liked it. I told my mom that and she smiled." He looked wistfully at the ceiling. "She smiled." He repeated in a whisper more to himself than anyone, feeling very sad.
He met Margaret's gaze, speaking more purposely. "She tried to tell me, tried to explain to me. There are two parts, you see. To the Kyrie." Hawkeye paused, watching Margaret, making sure she was still with him.
Her eyes were locked on his, listening so intently he could feel a physicality in it, a solid element that made him slightly nervous.
He looked back up at the ceiling, trying to get his thoughts in order. "Kyrie means Lord, and without the second part it's just a question. An unanswered question without hope for reply."
Hawkeye absent-mindedly stroked Margaret's hair as he continued in a more contemplative tone, "But the second part means hope. The 'Have Mercy' part. It means there's more than just a question. That even though we can't see it there's still hope that maybe God hears us, after all. That he might answer." He spoke more quickly now, feeling the momentum of his thoughts carrying his voice.
"But I think I realized tonight there was more at stake in this. Singing the Kyrie you assume something." He looked down at Margaret, speaking very slowly and deliberately. "You assume that God cares either way." He touched her cheek, searching her eyes.
He whispered, "More than that, you assume that there's a God to hear you."
"And what did you decide?" Margaret's voice was quiet, gentle. She watched him as he considered her.
Hawkeye took a long time to reply. "I don't know about God," he started, trying to make sense of his thoughts, "but I know that my mother trusted God, when she died, I mean. She trusted him enough to die without fear. I know that. The day I saw her for…the last time….she said she wasn't afraid. That I shouldn't be afraid, either." He frowned. "And when she told me about the Kyrie she wanted me to understand. And I want to understand."
He shook his head, sadly. "But I can't. How can I?" Hawkeye took a breath, tried to focus. He looked into Margaret's eyes, feeling lost. "How can there be a God when everyone dies alone?"
There. He'd said it. The niggling worm of dread had been named. Now she knew the truth, and he could never take it back.
"What?" Margaret was staring at him intensely, her eyes boring into his.
"Everyone dies alone." Hawkeye rubbed his eyes tiredly. "You once told me that."
Margaret looked aghast. "I did?"
"Well, some part of you did."
Margaret knit her brows, waiting for him to explain.
He sighed, knowing exactly how crazy this sounded. "I told you, I've been having these dreams."
Margaret looked at him sideways for a moment. "And I was in one?" She asked slowly, sounding mildly incredulous.
"Yes." He replied, watching her seriously.
"And I told you that everyone dies alone?" She sounded aghast.
"Yes." He patiently watched her piece things together.
Margaret considered this, her eyebrows still knit furiously. She looked at him for a beat. "But what does it mean?" She finally asked.
"I don't know," he admitted, smiling sadly at her.
"Well, why would I say that to you?" Margaret's voice had risen in volume.
"I don't know." Hawkeye repeated, tucking an errant strand of hair behind her ear. She seemed not to notice, but continued thinking intensely, her eyebrows almost violently ramming each other.
"Well, there's got to be a reason." She declared, more to the empty space around them than to him.
He studied her face, suddenly aware of being very tired. "I don't know, Margaret." He supplied with only a hint of the desolation he felt.
Margaret laid her head once more on his shoulder, away from his eyes. He'd clearly troubled her with this line of questioning, but he didn't know what to do. He wished he hadn't told her about the dream. But he couldn't take it back.
"Do you believe that?" He quietly asked after a moment, genuinely unsure of what she would say. He had to know.
"What?" She asked, her voice vibrating soothingly against his skin.
"That everyone dies alone?" He patiently reminded her, aware she knew exactly what.
"No, of course not," was her brusque reply.
"Okay." He wasn't going to push it any further, mostly because it was a relief to hear her say that. Hawkeye knew if Margaret didn't believe it, then the dream couldn't be real. And he might be free.
Suddenly, Margaret lifted her head, gazing at him with an intense, unreadable expression on her face. For a moment he thought it was anger, but then, then, she seemed to drain, until all he could see were the dark shadows under her eyes.
She watched him for a long time, seemed to be searching for words. "I don't know." She finally admitted. She looked sad, sad and very, very tired. "I don't want to believe that," Margaret wavered. "But maybe…maybe some things are just true whether we believe them or not."
"Margaret." Hawkeye interrupted, laying a hand on her arm. He sat up, pulling her with him. He smiled at her, certain. "I know you don't believe that." And he did. He suddenly felt an intense need to assure her of this. Maybe he was only assuring himself. Hawkeye brushed the thought away, and reached for her.
Margaret moved to cross her legs underneath her, sitting Indian-style across from him. She pursed her lips. "What makes you so sure?" She searched his face, and he knew she was trying to believe him.
He studied her for a moment. Clad only in the t-shirt she'd slipped on earlier, which looked too big for her—he'd probably left it here at some point—she looked younger somehow. Her skin was pale in the dim light of the tent, and her eyes glittered, waiting for him to respond.
She was anxiously watching him, needing an answer. Why was he so sure? Hawkeye was suddenly aware he knew the answer.
He looked seriously into her eyes. "Because I know you."
She cocked her head to the side, pausing to study him, probably watching for signs he was joking, he guessed. "Do you?" Margaret asked seriously, she seemed to be genuinely attempting to figure it out herself.
"Do I?" He repeated, wanting to hear her say it.
She gazed at him carefully for a long time, considering this. She seemed to finally come to a conclusion. "I guess you're right." Margaret spoke deliberately, trying to rationalize it even as she said the words. "I don't think I believe that...everyone dies alone." She affirmed slowly, tucking a strand of hair thoughtfully behind her ear. His eyes followed her fingers, pondering this.
Hawkeye smiled at her. "Because you believe in God," he asserted matter-of-factly, vaguely aware that she seemed to have conceded to something else as well. Something to do with him that he was afraid to think too sharply upon.
"No." She slowly reiterated. He quickly met her gaze, puzzled. Margaret's face was pensive. "I'm still not sure about that." She continued. "I think it's because…because I believe in man."
He looked at her quizzically, not comprehending. Not sure he could follow where she seemed to be leading.
She continued. "I think, you're right, the Kyrie asks for help from God. I remember that much from Sunday School. But maybe it's not really in the way that you think. More like, men can only save themselves. Help each other."
"People helping each other?"
Margaret frowned, reasoning out loud. "Well, if there is a God, then maybe that's how mercy is exacted. Sort of like, God is the best in man. The capacity for good."
Hawkeye leaned backward against the wall of the tent again. "If that theory is true, Margaret, then God must be dead. Or else sadistic. How can we talk about the best mankind can offer when we're here."
Margaret looked at him for the first time in a while. She moved to lean on him again. "Well, maybe that's the point." She reasoned, resting her head on his shoulder and inhaling slowly against him. "Maybe, we do the best we can." Margaret laid her hand on his chest, over his heart. "Maybe that's why it's called faith."
Hawkeye absent-mindedly tucked his leg underneath hers, intertwining them. "In the middle of a war you believe that?" He asked her doubtfully, turning his head to rest on her soft hair.
"Yeah." He saw her smile out of the corner of his eye. "Where else?"
He felt himself smiling. For the first time in a long, long time. "Maybe you're right Margaret." Hawkeye offered, wondering if he believed it, or if he was just relieved.
Margaret bolted upright, gripping his arms and regarding him, surprised. "I'm right?" She repeated skeptically, the quirk of a smile on her face. "I'm right?" She said again, waiting for him to verify.
"Maybe." He closed his eyes, leaning back against the tent once more.
"Maybe?" Hawkeye heard her repeat. He opened one eye. She was watching him, smirking, propped up on her elbows. "Because I think I need to mark the date on my calendar, if that's the case. I intend to celebrate the day annually." She continued to smirk at him.
He answered by pulling her up toward him and kissing her soundly on the mouth. She smiled against his lips, tucking her hands underneath the hem of the t-shirt he'd re-donned earlier. He shivered at the contact.
"Margaret!" He nearly yelped. "For someone with such a hot temper, you have some cold hands." He took her small hands in his and rubbed.
"Sorry." Margaret chuckled. "My fingers are perpetually chilly. Donald always used to yell about my cold toes." She immediately winced, realizing what she'd said. Margaret gently removed her hands from his and leaned back against the tent.
She started to apologize but he interrupted her. "How is Donald?" He glossed. "Do you ever speak to him?" He rolled to lie on his side, propping his head on his elbow to watch her.
Margaret regarded him, relieved he'd taken her discomfort in stride. "Not really." She answered, and Hawkeye could tell she was affecting nonchalance. "I think I heard he was up for promotion recently." Hawkeye couldn't miss the note of melancholy in her voice.
She got that look on her face, the guilty, tired look. Hawkeye shook his head. He sat up, gently tilting her chin to search her eyes. "Be happy you got out of there while you could, Margaret." He brushed her cheekbone with the back of his knuckles. "Donald was not, and still isn't worth your attention. Or your guilt."
"I know that." She said reflexively, sounding as if she wasn't too sure. He shot her a skeptical look. "I do." She emphasized, taking his hand and placing hers on his palm. He tightened his fingers around hers. Margaret continued. "He was absolutely, without doubt a cheating, dishonest, thick-necked oaf." She smiled self-appraisingly at Hawkeye, who added a few less tactful epithets to the list in his head.
"It's not him personally, really." She continued looking down at their hands. "I guess I just feel like that was my one shot. And I failed." She said more softly. "Or was doomed to fail."
"That's not true, you know." Hawkeye wasn't entirely sure what he was assuring her of, but he couldn't stand that look on her face any longer.
She shrugged. "For me, Donald will always just mean…my own personal failure." Margaret leaned into him, resting her head on his shoulder.
"I think I do know what you mean." Hawkeye laughed softly. "Margaret, for two such attractive people, we sure do 'fail' a lot. With relationships I mean."
He was only half-serious, but Margaret lifted her head and nodded, considering this. "Maybe it's because we're too self-involved for someone else." She suggested, after a beat. "Too busy with our own lives." He wondered if she was trying to make herself feel better or just spit-balling.
Hawkeye cocked his head, smiling a little, willing to engage her theory. "That's an interesting thought." He cocked his head, really considering it. "So you and I, respectively, we're too selfish to have a successful relationship? Is that what you're saying?"
Margaret nodded, looking bemused. "Guess so."
He shook his head, not entirely convinced. "That's an easy excuse to give." Hawkeye commented.
"Yeah." Margaret agreed, turning over to press her face into the side of his chest. She looped her leg through his.
"Too easy." He breathed, wrapping an arm around her.
"Probably." Margaret murmured into his chest. She started to tuck her fingers under his shirt again, but he caught her hand and covered it with his own.
"Good try." He said softly, half-smiling at the attempt. She laughed into the cotton of his t-shirt.
Presently, silence fell in the tent. He listened to the sound of Margaret's breathing, trying to deduce if she was asleep. Hawkeye thought about their conversation. Not for the first time, he wondered about them.
"Margaret?" He spoke softly, not wanting to break the quiet more than necessary.
She made a muffled sound of acknowledgement into his chest.
"Do you think if…you and I…" He searched for a word. "…tried." he finished lamely. "Do you think we'd…" He remembered the euphemism they'd used earlier, "…fail?"
She was silent. For a second, Hawkeye thought she was a sleep. He felt his chest vibrate when she finally affirmed, "Most likely."
He wasn't sure if she was kidding or not. "Why?" He asked to be safe.
"Because I hate you." She reminded him. Without moving she added, "Remember?" She snuggled closer, tucking her other leg under his and breathing deeply.
He laughed into her hair. "Yeah." He repeated tenderly. "You're right."
Epilogue
As the first pale streams of morning light filtered in through the tent walls, Hawkeye rose quietly. Margaret didn't wake when he gently shifted her, pausing to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. He hadn't slept, yet he felt rested. Maybe Margaret was sleeping for both of them now. Maybe that was okay.
He shrugged on his thin Army jacket, and decided to head to Post-Op to check on the soldier he had run away from so quickly last night. The camp was quiet.
He often found himself awake at this time of day lately, though he'd rarely taken the time to appreciate the scenery, the calmness of the morning. Now, as he studied the world around him, it seemed different, somehow.
Like it was just a place, and not some horrendous scenario in a dream. Hawkeye continued walking, feeling more awake than he'd felt in a long time.
He was aware of the cold, but didn't really experience it. He ducked into Post-Op as the sun appeared on the horizon.
All seemed well inside. Quiet. Oddly peaceful, all things considered. Hawkeye nodded at the nurse on duty, filling out paperwork at the desk, and made his way toward the only patient in the room. He knew, rationally, there wasn't going to be anything surprising. But there was still a tiny jolt of fear threatening to halt his steps. He managed to close the distance and hesitated. Bite the bullet, he commanded.
Grabbing the chart, he breathed relief. Nothing. This kid was home free. In more ways than one, Hawkeye amended enviously. Still…
Surely Margaret was right. How could there be no God when two of his prayers in the last 14 hours had been answered?
He stood for a moment and watched the boy sleep. Did he dream? Hawkeye wondered. Probably all about Mom's apple pie and his girlfriend Tina from home, playing baseball and watching television. Simpler things.
Meanwhile, Hawkeye sighed, he enjoyed recurring visions of bizarre funerals and cryptic messages. But then, it was probably for the best, he mused sarcastically, a little bitterly. Wouldn't want to get bored.
He replaced the chart and walked out the door. He didn't bother to stifle the sigh of relief that escaped his lips when he breathed fresh air.
So he was still a little crazy. Maybe now he was on the upward slope. Maybe. Hawkeye closed his eyes, feeling a light breeze on his face.
He decided to head to the Swamp before breakfast, change his clothes. As he walked a little further, he could just make out BJ's figure in the dim light. He seemed to be heading toward their tent as well. Hawkeye jogged, closing the distance between them.
"'Morning." He offered, falling into stride beside his friend. BJ glanced at him. He looked tired, haggard.
"Morning." BJ replied. "I feel like I should still say, good evening." He added, with marginal humor in his voice. Hawkeye nodded, wondering what time it was, the sun was only barely visible on the horizon.
"Long night?" He intoned, after a moment.
BJ chuffed. "After I left Post-Op last night, the Colonel asked if I would walk into town, see to an expecting mother." He cocked his head, smiling thinly. "Delivered not one baby, but two."
Hawkeye grinned crookedly at him. "For the price of one. The clearance sale approach to childbirth. So it was a productive night then, I take it?"
BJ looked at him oddly. "For all involved." He answered inattentively. He stopped abruptly, turning to study Hawkeye's face. "You're looking chipper this morning." He noted with slight amusement. "All went smoothly last night, then? No surprises?"
Hawkeye nodded an affirmative. BJ raised his eyebrows, waiting for him to elaborate. When Hawkeye didn't speak, BJ regarded him oddly.
"Well, I think I'm going to try and get a couple hours of sleep in before the fun parade marches on." He said, running a hand through his hair. "You coming back to the Swamp?"
Hawkeye shook his head. "I'm awake, now. Maybe I'll go find something to eat." He thought he might just walk a bit more, too, but he didn't want to get into details when BJ was clearly exhausted.
BJ looked at him for a moment. "You okay?" He asked, a glimmer of concern clearing the fatigue from his gaze.
Hawkeye smiled at his friend. "Yeah. I'm okay." And he was. If only for the time being, he was okay. He clapped BJ on the back. "Get some sleep."
As BJ started to walk away, Hawkeye called out, "Hey." Hawkeye took a step toward his friend. "You want to go to Rosie's tonight? I mean, if we're not otherwise engaged patching human beings together? We've all been under a huge strain lately." He shrugged. "It might be nice to blow off some steam."
BJ smiled. "Sure. Pick me up at 8." He said, a thin smile still on his face. He turned to leave once more than called out "Oh, hey." The tall man spun halfway on his heels. "We should ask Margaret, she's pretty worn-out, too, I think. If that's alright with you." He added, raising his eyebrows. Was that a twinkle he saw flash across his friend's eyes?
Shouldn't be a problem, Hawkeye thought to himself, smiling wryly. "Good idea." He assured BJ. "I'll be on my best behavior." He added, and BJ rolled his eyes. He turned to leave and Hawkeye watched him walk away, starting to notice chill morning air biting through the material of his jacket.
As Hawkeye began to walk toward the Mess Tent, he noted the sun had risen more fully over the hills. People would be waking up soon, the camp would come to life.
He had no idea what would happen today, and maybe there would suddenly be an influx of wounded, or some other type of catastrophe might occur. He shoved his hands in his pockets. For now he looked forward to tonight. Hawkeye smiled to himself. One step at a time, he thought.
He remembered what Margaret said. About believing in man. He didn't know if he could completely subscribe to that theory right now. Maybe now was a good time to try.
A/N: Wow. So, I realize I've done the unthinkable, leaving these stories for so long. I assure you it was hard for me to let them go. However, I am home for the summer from school for a bit, and I fully intend to catch up. This story might be finished, I might do another chapter, I'm not sure. What I do know, is that I just started work on Vacare again, and will hopefully post something soon. So, to recap, I'm awful, I should be bludgeoned for taking so long to update. In hopes of redeeming myself I vow to post more and soon. Well, many, many thanks to everyone patient enough to forgive my absence. You'll be hearing more from me soon.