Hawkeye and Sidney made the treacherous meander back to the swamp's cool
shade from the bustle of the Mess Tent at lunchtime to find Sparky there,
on a stool, back leaning against a wooden slat of the wall, feet up on a
crate as he downed a glass of gin, just as home as if he'd been born here.
A plop sounded as a large-bellied rat lifted up an olive on a toothpick and dropped it into a second glass, a third and fourth already prepared in that manner. It spun around and shoved the glass towards the edge of the crate, where Sidney picked it up.
"You've got to have an iron stomach, Sparky, to keep guzzling this stuff."
Hawkeye ran his hand up over the front of his shirt, squinting back in the direction of the mess tent. "Hey, Sid, give us some credit, too; we braved the incredible inedible lunch. And don't talk about iron: we've got enough strikes against us here with Major Winter snoozing away inside."
"Yeah, those Sidhe really must be a pain in the buns if this little creature decided to come back with us..." Sidney nodded down at the rat, which had appeared at the cave and had trailed them back to camp, and which, through its peculiar actions, they had decided must be the Dormouse in disguise.
The dormouse nodded back up at Sidney sleepily, and hefted a martini glass to sip at the contents from the lip.
Hawkeye laughed: "A born Swamp Rat!"
And with that, he slipped inside the tent, from the company of two waking men and the dream that drank with them, to the company of two dreaming men drinking the sleep of the weary. He sat down on his bunk and crossed one leg over the other, untying his frayed bootlaces. He wondered what B.J. was dreaming of.
When one boot, having fallen, was followed by the falling of the second boot, and when Hawkeye was in the middle of disrobing, his mind began to wander. All of a sudden, with his khaki undershirt bunched around his neck, he dove across the bed and grabbed a note pad on which he'd been writing a letter home. Under the last paragraph he'd written, he grabbed up a pencil and scrawled 'July 27 1953.'
That done, he stared at said scrawling. And threw it down on the bed in frustration, his eyes prowling around the room for someone to blame.
"Christ," he muttered, whipping off his undershirt and throwing it down with equal fervor. From here to the COMING July seemed like an eternity. Imagining staying in Korea for that AND another year seemed unbearable. He looked at the sheet again, checked his math, seeming, as promised, to have a hard time keeping the precise date in mind without looking at it. Yes. Nearly two years.
"Two YEARS," he nearly whimpered, but still, desperate, he tore the date off from the bottom of the sheet of paper and jammed it forcefully under his pillow. At least he knew that the war WOULD end, some day.
And at least, he comforted himself as he finished undressing for the shower and tossed on his bathrobe, he wouldn't be here to see the end of it. After all, he's been here since nearly the beginning... they don't typically keep you around for the whole deal, right? They send you home... like they sent Trapper home, like they sent Henry home. He's got to be getting out of here soon enough, right?
Right?
"Second Tuesday of the month," Hawkeye explained as Sidney and Sparky looked up to him exiting the swamp.
As he strolled towards the showers he could hear Sidney and Sparky re- emerge in conversation: Sparky was eagerly answering questions about his relationship with the Seneschal, in glowing terms and with the air of one who doesn't get to talk about a favorite topic much, and will gladly jump on the opportunity. Sidney was listening intently, watching a kind of mania bubble up in the Ghoul, a kind of intense obsession the likes of which Sidney had scarcely seen before.
Hawkeye smiled to himself to hear the psychologist reach out to the fanatic, and the fanatic jump eagerly into the psychologist's care. He stepped into the shower tent, his towel draped around the back of his neck.
~
A plop sounded as a large-bellied rat lifted up an olive on a toothpick and dropped it into a second glass, a third and fourth already prepared in that manner. It spun around and shoved the glass towards the edge of the crate, where Sidney picked it up.
"You've got to have an iron stomach, Sparky, to keep guzzling this stuff."
Hawkeye ran his hand up over the front of his shirt, squinting back in the direction of the mess tent. "Hey, Sid, give us some credit, too; we braved the incredible inedible lunch. And don't talk about iron: we've got enough strikes against us here with Major Winter snoozing away inside."
"Yeah, those Sidhe really must be a pain in the buns if this little creature decided to come back with us..." Sidney nodded down at the rat, which had appeared at the cave and had trailed them back to camp, and which, through its peculiar actions, they had decided must be the Dormouse in disguise.
The dormouse nodded back up at Sidney sleepily, and hefted a martini glass to sip at the contents from the lip.
Hawkeye laughed: "A born Swamp Rat!"
And with that, he slipped inside the tent, from the company of two waking men and the dream that drank with them, to the company of two dreaming men drinking the sleep of the weary. He sat down on his bunk and crossed one leg over the other, untying his frayed bootlaces. He wondered what B.J. was dreaming of.
When one boot, having fallen, was followed by the falling of the second boot, and when Hawkeye was in the middle of disrobing, his mind began to wander. All of a sudden, with his khaki undershirt bunched around his neck, he dove across the bed and grabbed a note pad on which he'd been writing a letter home. Under the last paragraph he'd written, he grabbed up a pencil and scrawled 'July 27 1953.'
That done, he stared at said scrawling. And threw it down on the bed in frustration, his eyes prowling around the room for someone to blame.
"Christ," he muttered, whipping off his undershirt and throwing it down with equal fervor. From here to the COMING July seemed like an eternity. Imagining staying in Korea for that AND another year seemed unbearable. He looked at the sheet again, checked his math, seeming, as promised, to have a hard time keeping the precise date in mind without looking at it. Yes. Nearly two years.
"Two YEARS," he nearly whimpered, but still, desperate, he tore the date off from the bottom of the sheet of paper and jammed it forcefully under his pillow. At least he knew that the war WOULD end, some day.
And at least, he comforted himself as he finished undressing for the shower and tossed on his bathrobe, he wouldn't be here to see the end of it. After all, he's been here since nearly the beginning... they don't typically keep you around for the whole deal, right? They send you home... like they sent Trapper home, like they sent Henry home. He's got to be getting out of here soon enough, right?
Right?
"Second Tuesday of the month," Hawkeye explained as Sidney and Sparky looked up to him exiting the swamp.
As he strolled towards the showers he could hear Sidney and Sparky re- emerge in conversation: Sparky was eagerly answering questions about his relationship with the Seneschal, in glowing terms and with the air of one who doesn't get to talk about a favorite topic much, and will gladly jump on the opportunity. Sidney was listening intently, watching a kind of mania bubble up in the Ghoul, a kind of intense obsession the likes of which Sidney had scarcely seen before.
Hawkeye smiled to himself to hear the psychologist reach out to the fanatic, and the fanatic jump eagerly into the psychologist's care. He stepped into the shower tent, his towel draped around the back of his neck.
~