And so, they fell into a routine for the next few days. Trapper washed the nasty yellow bedspread and the rest of the ancient linens in the spare room. Some of his pictures vanished from the master bedroom as he did his best to add a few personal touches to his cramped, cluttered home. He had his own space now, and Hawkeye had his. They operated almost in shifts, avoiding one another as if by clockwork. If one was going to be utilising the shared spaces of the living room, kitchen or bathroom, the other would retreat to his room to wait it out. Hawkeye managed to secure a bar job, but he'd been landed with the daytime shifts, so his tips were few and far between, and barely covered their essentials as he waited for his first check to come through.

Time spent together felt contrived – almost like a social experiment. Could Hawkeye trust Trapper well enough to relax in his presence? Could Trapper control his temper while he was around Hawkeye? Conversation was stilted and cautious, and heavy topics were avoided completely. It occurred to Hawkeye that the current modus operandi seemed to revolve more around efforts to skirt around their issues, rather than any directed attempt to move forward. Trapper's final pay packet arrived swiftly, and he set it aside in savings in case Hawkeye's meagre salary didn't cover the rent, determined not to touch it. Within a day, he had caved and bought a case of beer. He rationed himself to three a day and considered it a triumph. Hawkeye didn't bother to hide his disappointment, but he couldn't bring himself to confront the issue, either. Instead, that night, he counted his tips, thinking only of the price of fuel, and the mileage to Crabapple Cove.

On Hawkeye's day off that week, they had resolved to do One Thing together – the grocery shopping.

Hawkeye hated supermarkets. Growing up in a small town, he found the notion of buying groceries from some place where the vendor hadn't grown the produce himself felt alien and impersonal. He'd adjusted to shopping in the city after he'd moved away, but the monolithic 'all-you-can-buy' shrines to rampant consumerism that had sprung up around them over the last decade were, as far as Hawkeye was concerned, about as far away from a pleasant shopping experience as you could get. But, on this occasion, the aim was to get the task done as quickly as possible, get everything in one place, and scurry back to the apartment pronto. Neither one of them felt entirely comfortable. Venturing out together felt like being on trial.

And so, together, they navigated the cold, sterile aisles of the supermarket, Hawkeye wrinkling his nose at the freeze-dried, pre-packaged offerings, and Trapper following after with a distracted expression and clammy palms. He hung back, glancing around the store, paying more attention to what their fellow shoppers were doing than what he was putting in their cart.

With a weary sigh, Hawkeye sidled up to him, trying so very hard to keep the snark out of his voice. "I realise what it is you're trying to do," he said as gently as he could manage, "but if you could maybe find it within yourself to stand at least within shouting distance so I don't have to radio in every time I need to check the list with you."

Trapper flushed, and glanced about himself once more, hideously aware that they were coming across a couple who were having a row. The very suggestion that they had any sort of shared responsibility in the task was sure to broadcast their intimacy to everyone in the vicinity!

At this moment in time, it was the middle aged couple who had been trailing them for three aisles who were the focus of his paranoia. As Hawkeye moved off to rummage in the diary section, Trapper glowered at the couple – he was certain he'd caught them looking in their direction at least twice now, and he wanted to try and catch them…

"Earth to Trapper!"

He turned, nearly knocking over a stack of juice boxes. "Huh?"

Hawkeye was looking at him with that tired, irritated expression on his face that suggested that Trapper was wearing on his last nerve. "I said 'how are we for milk?'"

Shuddering, Trapper glanced back at the couple, now loitering a few feet behind them. "No idea."

"You did the list – you put 'milk' – so how much do we need? A pint? A gallon? What's in the refrigerator?"

The middle aged lady looked up – if she wasn't staring at them before, she certainly was now – and Trapper bristled. "Keep your voice down!" His words were a dangerous, angry snarl, and he saw the shudder go through Hawkeye at his tone, too late to stop himself.

Hawkeye's eyes rolled so very dramatically they took his head and upper body with them. "Oh no, don't start this bullshit again. I'm not in the mood for this."

"An' I ain't in the mood to get thrown outta the grocery store!"

Hawkeye noted his rising voice, flung a carton of the offending dairy produce into the cart, and shoved it in Trapper's direction. "Would you get over yourself? It's not like we're fucking on the checkout counter!"

"Would you shut the hell up?!"

Hawkeye fell silent. But the expression on his face was far from one of compliance, and Trapper knew he'd stepped over the line. They finished the shopping in silence – a silence which continued all the way back to the apartment.

The car journey home was tense, and the air was stiflingly close. It was only once they reached the cool seclusion of the hallway that Trapper finally spoke: "Sorry I snapped atcha."

Hawkeye ignored him, fumbling with the keys as he tightened his grip on his armful of groceries.

Trapper scowled at his stubbornness and followed him reluctantly to the elevator, irritated. "I'm tryin'a do the right thing here, ya know!"

Hawkeye pulled the door closed with a rattle and a crash, and jabbed at the button. The mechanical whir of the elevator started up, concealing their argument, and Hawkeye sighed, leaning heavily against the metal cage and staring wearily at the man opposite him. "What do you expect me to say? 'Congratulations, honey. I really appreciate only getting yelled at, as opposed to you lamping me in the middle of the dairy aisle. Things are clearly much better now. In fact, I'm all a-shiver with warm fuzzies over your newfound love and respect for me.' Is that the kind of thing you're after? You want me to pat you on the shoulder and tell you it's alright?"

"Between you an' me, I think I've made a lotta progress!"

Hawkeye rolled his eyes at him.

"What the hell's that look for?"

"I need both my hands free for the round of applause you clearly deserve…"

The elevator reached their floor with a jolt, and Hawkeye shoved the gate open.

"Ok, fine, I raised my voice a little – but only because you were bangin' on an' advertisin' to everybody–"

Hawkeye snorted, and stepped out into the corridor. "Right, because apparently asking a simple question about the contents of our refrigerator is akin to 'advertising our sexuality'. Would you prefer we conduct all public conversations via telephone now? You go stand at a payphone and I'll call in and–"

He stopped. Trapper nearly collided with him. They froze.

Between them and their apartment, were about half a dozen of their neighbours, standing around, gossiping in hushed whispers. Doors stood open, and several pairs of eyes were on them. Nobody moved.

Trapper shuddered and nudged Hawkeye forward. The hallway stretched out before them like a gauntlet. His attitude to such situations was to attempt to act casual. Hawkeye's, meanwhile, was to make eye contact with every single member of their gathered spectators on their way down the corridor. "Did we miss a Neighbourhood Watch meeting?" Trapper glared at him. Hawkeye was unbelievable! There was even a smile on his face!

The smile soon vanished.

As they reached their apartment, their audience's purpose became clear: there, daubed across their door in bright red paint, were the words 'FAGS OUT'. Hawkeye frowned. Trapper stared at the floor. He could feel their eyes on him. Accusing, judging… His palms were sweaty, and he fumbled with his keys. He couldn't get inside fast enough! Beside him, Hawkeye was doing little to improve the situation. He was… laughing – actually laughing. Doubled over in the middle of the hallway like he was about to drop the groceries. How could he find this funny?

As Trapper fought desperately to make his escape, Hawkeye addressed the crowded hallway: "Oh, I see what you did here! We're re-decorating! Is this the design committee? As much as I hate to impose on your artistic authority, I'd suggest something a little more in-keeping with the existing fixtures and fittings. You might want to consider a forest green, or-"

"Hawk, would you shut the fuck up?" Trapper wrestled the door open and gave it a kick.

His thunder effectively stolen, Hawkeye bit his lip and followed him inside. Trapper slammed the door behind him.

Inside their apartment, the silence was thick and impenetrable. Neither of them spoke, but Trapper set about putting away the groceries with a whole lot of unnecessary banging of cabinet doors and slamming of the refrigerator.

"Could you stop that?" Hawkeye asked eventually.

Trapper snorted and kicked the trashcan. "Why? Makes me feel better."

"You're making me uncomfortable." The words were enunciated with ill-disguised disdain.

"Oh, I make you uncomfortable, do I?" Trapper tossed the grocery box into the corner. "An' what about those assholes outside? You were all smiles an' jokes with them when they were stood there, glarin' at us, judgin' us, but now you're turnin' chicken on me? I don't get you, I really don't! You know, this is exactly what I was afraid would happen; why I didn't want you shootin' your mouth off. An' now you see what you've done?"

"Oh, so it's my fault? That's interesting. Because if I remember right, I'm not the one who keeps storming in here spoiling for a fight every time someone calls him a name."

"You mouthed off about us! Loud enough so the neighbours heard! I told you to keep quiet, damn it! I told you to button your fuckin' lip!"

He kicked the coffee table, flipping it halfway over and spilling the contents across the carpet.

"Would you CUT IT OUT!"

Hawkeye's exclamation was more shock than anger, but Trapper wheeled on him. "WHAT?!"

Hawkeye flinched. It was barely noticeable, but Trapper noticed it. Behind the determined glare, there was fear. Hawkeye was afraid. Of him.

Hawkeye stood his ground, trembling slightly, and spoke with fragile determination: "Get out."

Stunned, Trapper froze. His temper faded, he was left shaking. Hawkeye stood before him, glaring at him, defiant, and Trapper felt a shiver go through him. "Wh-what?"

Looking away, Hawkeye shivered. He couldn't look Trapper in the face! His eyes screwed closed, and tears threatening to spill, he shook his head sadly. "You heard me."

"What… what d'ya mean? Hawkeye…?"

"You think this is progress? Do you?" His words were an impassioned plea, but his tone was weak, his eyes tired and sad. Defeated. "You think trashing our place and… and smuggling beer into your room is going to prove to me how emotionally stable you are? Because I'm not convinced!"

Knowing he'd been caught, and knowing full well that he'd screwed up, Trapper floundered. "I… I didn't think you knew about…"

"Yeah, well I did! Tell me, Trapper, was it just the two dozen bottles you bought, or are there more hidden someplace I don't know about?"

"Hey! I limit myself! I just didn't tell ya because I knew you'd react like this! I'm tryin'a cut back!"

"Spoken like a true addict!"

"I ain't–"

"Fine. You're not an alcoholic. Whatever." Hawkeye pushed on. Already, he could hear Trapper's temper raising. He wasn't about to get drawn into another argument. He needed… What did he need? He tried to think rationally, push feelings aside and be reasonable about this. He spoke calmly, enunciating every word, like he was trying to hold back. "I'm not going to discuss this. I want you to go out, find somewhere to sit quietly for a few hours so I can think, and then, if you've calmed down, we'll talk. I am not dealing with you when you're like this!"

"Talk?! What do ya mean 'talk'?" Trapper's eyes widened. "Are ya throwin' me out? Because I kicked the coffee table?!"

Hawkeye turned on him, a disgusted sneer across his lips and a look in his eyes that turned Trapper's guts to ice. "What? Do you want a medal because you beat up on the furniture instead of me this time? I said go! Walk round the block, cool off, go do something but whatever it is do it somewhere that isn't here! I don't want you anywhere near me right now! Understand?"

His voice trembling, Trapper made one last ditch attempt to talk Hawkeye round. "No… no, Hawk, come on! I'm… I'm calm! We can talk! Let's talk about this!"

It was a lie, and Hawkeye knew it. He closed his eyes so he didn't have to see the look on Trapper's face. "No. This isn't working. We're not talking, we're fighting. Again! And I've had it with this shit!" He wiped his face with his hand, still unable to look Trapped in the face. "Go on, get out of here."

Silent and cowed, Trapper nodded. He didn't seem to know what to do with himself! Dazed, he patted his pockets for his wallet, glancing about himself for the keys. At last, he found them in the little clay pot by the door, where they always were. He looped his finger around the key-ring, letting them dangle from his knuckle, his thumb running thoughtfully over the cool metal as he fought to calm both his panic and his temper. At last, he looked up at Hawkeye. "You'll still be here when I get back, right?"

Hawkeye glanced up at him, and, for a moment, he entertained the thought of just… not being here. But no, he didn't have the heart to walk out while Trapper was away. Nine years deserved a proper goodbye. If he was going to leave, he would damned well give the both of them closure, and say it to Trapper's face. Even if that day was today. "I won't go anywhere while you're gone," he replied, almost begrudgingly, a silent 'yet' clinging to the end of the statement. "If that makes you feel any better."

Trapper did not feel better. He felt, for the most part, sick and ashamed. Hawkeye's words didn't seem real. He ran a trembling hand over his face, wiping the cold sweat from his brow. "Right. You're right. I'll go cool off an' we'll… we'll talk, right? I just need to… step out an' calm down is all…"

Hawkeye's look was icy. "You do that."

Slowly, Trapper slunk his way to the door, feeling for all the world like a condemned man.

Hawkeye heard the door open, and added sharply: "And do me a favour and try to come home sober."

Trapper hovered, one hand on the door-handle. He couldn't reply to that – he knew he didn't have the resolve to keep such a promise even if he made it – and so, instead, he offered up one last, pleading case to Hawkeye: "I'm doin' my best, Hawk…"

Hawkeye turned away again, staring at the mess Trapper had made. "Oh yeah?" he murmured, a strange numbness stating to set in. "Well, your best sucks. What's it going to take, huh?"

Trapper gave no reply, and Hawkeye realised bitterly that neither one of them had any answers. There was nothing else to be said. Giving up, Trapper glanced back at him. "Do… do ya even want me to come back?" This time, his tone was one of utter resignation.

Shaking his head in despair, Hawkeye gave a weak shrug. Did he? Did he care? He couldn't face that particular conversation now. He was too angry, too disappointed. Instead, he turned away and started to clean up the debris left by Trapper's latest outburst. "Do what you want," he muttered as he picked his way through the debris. "I don't care anymore." He heard the door close again, but did not even look up as Trapper slipped out quietly.


The clean-up took some time. That, Hawkeye had to admit, wasn't really Trapper's fault. Part of the mess was due to the fact that he himself had never had the energy or inclination to keep the place tidy over these past few months, despite Trapper's insistence that he ought to, because he was the one who wasn't working. As a result, the coffee table had been piled high with magazines, letters, dirty plates, candy bar wrappers, beer bottles, and countless other bits of detritus that should have been trashed or stashed weeks ago. It had never bothered Hawkeye – as long as he could see over the top of the heap well enough to get a view of the television, he didn't mind – but now, he was meticulous. He sat on the carpet, surrounded by the debris, picking through each item and sorting it into piles by category or owner.

He knew why he was taking so much time over it: it was something to do; something to take his mind off the fact that he was living with a man who now seemed to be routinely trashing their home as a healthier alternative to pummelling him. A man with whom he would be having a 'conversation' once he returned. What could he even say? What was there to say? This whole situation was too fucked up for Hawkeye to even think on.

At last, he had neatly stacked his own possessions on the couch, and Trapper's on the table, and he was left sitting on an empty – if rather grubby – carpet.

This place was disgusting. There were crumbs all around the couch from Hawkeye's morning breakfasts, and lint trodden into the pile from Trapper's work boots.

And so, Hawkeye dragged the hoover out of the bedroom closet and cleaned, just like the good little housewife Trapper had wanted him to be. Somehow, it felt cathartic. There was something cleansing to be found in household chores.

And then, soon enough, it was done. He slipped the hoover back into the closet and stood, silent and still, staring at the open door. He was out of distractions. Now, he had to think about there to actually go from here. And so, exhausted, he sank wearily onto his bed, mulling over the task that lay ahead.

His suitcase, a scruffy leather thing that had been lugged between far too many apartments and not enough vacations, sat in the corner of the closet, wedged in beside the hoover, and half buried under clothes that Hawkeye had never bothered to hang up properly.

He sat and stared for the longest time. His thoughts returned once more to Maine, to his childhood home, to the safety of his old room and his father. It would be so easy… so nice

He stood, taking the three paces it took to cross the room, until he found himself standing over the case, hesitating in spite of his best intentions. There was a tightness in his chest, and, overwhelmed with a feeling he was almost loath to permit to bubble to the surface, Hawkeye shattered. He fell against the wall, silent tears streaming down his face. The temptation of escape was calling to him, and he didn't care to resist. All other thoughts were drowned out by one single, all-consuming mantra: 'I can't do this anymore.'

He wanted out.

Tears continued to fall, blinding him temporarily as he sank to the carpet between the closet and the dresser, curled up into a ball, hugging his knees to his chest. The sob that escaped him was almost inhuman, totally raw and unbridled. He'd been bottling up for far too long…

Lifting his head, his gaze fell upon the dresser beside him, and the photograph that sat on top of it, turned face down on the surface, right where he had left it having thrown it at Trapper only a few short nights before. Reaching up, he picked it up one last time. The crack across the glass suddenly seemed far too apt. His fingers traced tentatively across the broken glass, as if trying to claw back some memory of what they once were. But, at this precise moment, he couldn't recall anything beyond raised voices and broken crockery and the scar on his elbow that still throbbed at night.

He couldn't bear to look anymore. He set the picture back down, and, just as suddenly as they had started, the tears stopped. He was numb once more.

Maybe it was for the best. The phrase 'defence mechanism' ghosted across his mind.

Feeling hideously disconnected from his body, he clambered shakily to his feet. The suitcase now hung at his side, his hand wrapped neatly around the handle. It was so light to lift, and slid out from beneath the clutter effortlessly. That surprised him. Why, he had no idea. Was he expecting inanimate objects to start putting up a fight, telling him to stay? But Hawkeye knew better than to start looking for signs from the outside. The days he'd spent hoping for some indication that Trapper wasn't a lost cause had proven fruitless. There had been nothing. No signs, no progress, no hope. Just an endless cycle of yelling and destruction and denials. There was nothing left to cling to now. His emotional state hovering indecisively somewhere between numb and heartbroken, Hawkeye began to pack.

It was like being drunk. Maybe it was the emotional exhaustion, but he just couldn't quite get a handle on his emotions as he laid the case neatly on the bed and loaded it with his clothes.

It was a sorry collection. Hawkeye had once been something of a sharp dresser, but his wardrobe now consisted of worn-out slacks, sweaters that were losing their shape, and formerly bright shirts that were a sorry echo of their former, colourful glory.

What was it about his life that just… ate away at everything it touched? He felt like he'd aged about three decades in the past three years.

Gradually, his sorry collection of possessions was sorted and sifted and folded neatly into his bag. Toothbrush, razor, aftershave. All his paperwork, ID, useless diploma, accursed discharge paper. Everything immediately crucial to him packed into one small suitcase.

It was almost frighteningly how simple it was. He didn't need much: he could send a truck back to Boston for the larger things, like the TV, once he was settled. The case packed, he sank onto the bed beside it, still numb, still out of it.

The stab of emotion he'd felt earlier was gone, lost in the face of the finality of it all, the numbness taking hold. He almost missed it. Why couldn't he feel anything? Why wasn't the enormity of this looming over him? Why couldn't he cry again?

Perhaps it would come later. Perhaps tonight, when he bid Trapper the goodbye he undoubtedly deserved, the tears would come. Or maybe on the journey home. Or maybe, in a few weeks' time, he'd be listening to something on the radio and a song would remind him of Trapper and it would all come flooding over him.

But, for now, there was nothing. He rose from the bed, closed the case, and deposited it beside the dresser, ready to go.

There was nothing to do now but wait.