DAY FOUR…
Trapper stared. He wasn't able to do much else. The constant crawling mass that seemed to cover much of his field of vision would still be there no matter where he looked. If he closed his eyes, he could feel it, which was worse. And so, he lay, and he kept his gaze fixed on the ceiling, and he stared at it. Too exhausted to fight any more, too wired to sleep. Every now and then his body would spasm or his gut would clench, but he found if he just lay quietly and focused on the strange kaleidoscope before his eyes, tried to tell himself that it couldn't hurt him, it was almost bearable.
Every now and then, it became too much, and he would cower away, wailing like a child suffering from bad dreams, unable to tell the nightmare from reality. And then, minutes later, the moment would pass and he was lucid once more – lucid, and horrified by how real at had been, how he had clawed at his skin under the illusion that something was burrowing into him.
Now was one of his more lucid moments. He was vaguely aware that he was alone. Hawkeye had gone… somewhere. He didn't know where. He hadn't left, had he? No, no he hadn't. He'd said he'd be back soon, although for a while there Trapper had blacked out and forgotten that and spent ten minutes or so sobbing in panicked despair convinced he'd been abandoned. But, for now at least, he could remember.
Had he been feeling stronger, he may very well have tried to make a dash to a liquor store to feed his craving, although Hawkeye had, of course, taken all their cash with him. Not only that but, somewhere in the back of his mind, Trapper had an inkling of something new – a sense that the light at the end of the tunnel was in sight, and he didn't want to back out now.
The things on the ceiling changed direction and began to move in an interesting double spiral around the lightbulb. Trapper stared, and laughed.
He was vaguely aware of Hawkeye returning some time later. He didn't know when. Could be an hour, could be five minutes. Who could say?
There was a rattle, and Trapper turned his head to see Hawkeye shaking a small pill out of a pot and into the palm of his hand. "Here," he said simply, holding the pill out to Trapper and offering him a glass of water.
Trapper took it.
"What was that?"
"Chlordiazepoxide," Hawkeye replied, capping the bottle and slipping it into his pocket.
"Where'd you get those?"
Hawkeye gave a tense frown, refusing to look at him as he tidied away the food Trapper had scarcely touched while he'd been away. "Never you mind."
Turning his head, Trapper squinted through the constantly creeping haze, watching as Hawkeye's hands busied themselves with his mess. "Hey," he murmured, his mouth feeling dry as he spoke, his head throbbing as he tried to focus. "Your watch is gone."
A brief, tight smile from Hawkeye as he turned his head to glance at Trapper. "For somebody half delusional with withdrawal, you can be very perceptive when I don't want you to be."
"You didn't have to…"
"No, but I did it anyway."
"I never asked…"
"No, but I decided. Now lie back."
It was only when Hawkeye started manhandling him back into bed that Trapper realised he'd tried to get up. Presumably to… run off down the street to retrieve Hawkeye's watch? He laughed, the absurdity of his own delirious mind suddenly striking him as hilariously funny! What a marvellous thing the brain was! How delightfully rebellious and unpredictable!
"You remember," he chuckled, howling as Hawkeye persuaded him back into his bed, "in Korea? When I swiped your watch an' almost lost it in a poker game!"
"Yes, I remember." Hawkeye's response was lacking any spark of amusement, but Trapper continued to guffaw like a madman.
"An' you were so mad, you took all my loot!"
"Yes, well, consider my fee paid in advance. Now, sleep. We both need it."
Calmer now, Trapper sank into the mattress, his head lolling gently on the pillow. Hawkeye checked his pulse, cursing under his breath as he realised he had no watch to check the time with, and so he just had to go by feel. Content that Trapper's heartrate was nicely on the safe side of racing, he then pressed a hand to his head. He was still clammy, and warm to the touch, but not burning up as he had been not so long ago.
Trapper moved his head to face him, but his eyes remained closed. In a voice little more than a murmur, he said: "Mother used to kiss my forehead…"
Hawkeye felt like the ground had just given way beneath him. His eyes stung.
Already, Trapper was out for the count, either drugged or delirious, and he didn't notice – not the significance of his words, nor Hawkeye's reaction. Nor did he notice when Hawkeye had to escape to the bathroom yet again, hiding for several minutes before returning with red-rimmed eyes and a lump in his throat.