Disclaimer: I, unfortunately, do not own the wonderful series MASH is. While I am madly inlove with it, most especially Hawk and Trapper and BJ, I can do nothing about my love for it.
A/N: Hawk's point of view, incase you missed that. Quite depressing actually, though it wasn't meant to be that way. It was just meant to be truthful. I think I've captured it pretty damn well, even if I do say so myself.
Please review
-Nic
At first, it's wonderful to be home. You get to see everyone you've missed, dad, Aunt Lily, everyone. And you smile at them-even if the smile is a bit bitter-and you hug them and everything seems to be okay. Not perfect, but okay.
Then the happy-to-be-home feeling wears off and you don't have this aching need to see people that you've missed. And they don't seem too keen on seeing you, either. They're always looking away or acting busy whenever you want to talk. They don't laugh at your jokes, because they think you're serious.
It's then that you realize that they don't understand you, that they never did understand you, not even before the war. They don't get you like...like Trapper and BJ got me…they just don't understand. And the ache, a constant ache now, to see BJ and Trapper and Colonel Potter, and-hell-even Charles and Frank, it gets a little stronger.
So you pretend to live each day like the war never happened. You pretend that you're perfectly satisfied with the whispered conversations behind your back and the look of respect and reverence everyone gives you. But inside, inside you're screaming to high heaven wondering why no one seems to understand or even tries to understand.
They ignore you, and you're left alone with your memories. Memories of winters that were so cold and blood that was so warm. Memories of food, food that tasted terrible, but food you now long for. You're always asking the waiter at your favorite restaurant to burn the chicken and then chill it, because you like it cold-you need it cold.
You're left with memories of little touches and hidden smiles and people dying all around you. You're left remembering how you held the person who hated you, fiercely, as she cried. How you trusted your bunkmate with everything there is because he was your best friend, is your best friend, no matter if you die before speaking again.
You're left remembering people who-even though they only knew you for a few years-were willing to die for you, hands down. Whether they loved you or hated you, they were family.
And you think about which you would prefer, being safe at home and ignored, or being out there, risking your life in foreign land, with people who loved you, would die for you.
Me? I'd rather still be fighting this war. I've waited so long for it to end, and now I want to go back. But I won't lie to you, I'd rather still be fighting this war.
But that's just me.