Ants were marching under his skin. It was driving him crazy.
The room was too hot, there were too many people being too loud, their smiles and hugs and tears felt like an invasion, and through it all the ants kept marching.

He had been on his way for an eternity. Guam, Honolulu, San Francisco, the outer circle of Saturn, or the smallest moon of Pluto, the places he passed through were just a blur and didn't really matter. The planes were just pulled down curtains, and the scent of perfume as another flight attendant took an empty glass from his tray and replaced it with a full one that made things even blurrier.
He wished he could have kept the curtains up. To get a sense of space and to keep his thoughts away from being trapped in a metallic tube, but then his mind went to Henry, falling from the sky in a cloud of smoke and fire and that just made it worse.
He couldn't even look out the window when they were flying over Maine, coming in for a landing in Bangor.
He had longed for the New England air to fill his lungs, but when he stepped out of the plane, his throat was so tight all he could manage was a small gasp. When he saw his dad, he could hardly even manage that.
The familiar sight of his dad's light blue Chevy was overwhelming. So was the way the passenger seat creaked, the way the motor coughed to life, and the way the glove compartment popped open every now and then. He hadn't thought about that in so long, and the familiar movement of closing it did nothing to get rid of the lump in his throat.
All the familiar signs and places passed by the window, and he had a strange feeling it wasn't real. Like he was sitting in Henry's office, watching a raspy home movie. This was in color, though, vivid and alive, and it almost made his eyes hurt, the colors just so loud. Peace was loud.
Crabapple Cove looked the same. Lovely and quaint, and for some reason that surprised him. He had been gone for a lifetime; shouldn't things have changed? And even though it looked the same, why did it feel so different?
They made the familiar turn up to the house and he wanted to drink it all in, the sight of his home – his beacon of light for all those years - but his eyes got caught on the cars lining the driveway. His dad swore a little as he parked and turned the ignition off.

"I'm sorry, son, I tried to stop them, but they wouldn't listen. Apparently."

And unstoppable they were, the good people of Crabapple Cove, piled into the Pierce residence, all so happy to see their Hawkeye home.

"Isn't it wonderful to be back?" they asked, and the truthful answer would be "I don't know" because he didn't really know how he felt yet, hadn't had a chance to catch up, to process. Yes, it was wonderful, but coming home also meant colossal losses. He had known that, of course, had known they would all scatter to the wind and that all of them had their own homecomings to get to, but he hadn't been prepared for how physical that loss would feel. There was a small part of him that expected BJ to be there every time he turned his head. But "I don't know" was a terrible answer to give, so he said "yes", and it was true and what they wanted to hear, so everyone was happy.
He found it hard to remember names. The blonde, broad-shouldered man standing in front of him, what the hell was his name? Hawkeye wanted to call him Corporal Andersen, but that wasn't right. Corporal Andersen's legs were left in Korea, nothing more than a mess of blood and bones beneath the knees. Corporal Andersen could not be standing in front of him, but Hawkeye's old friend Mike Densmore was. Standing and smiling and asking if it wasn't wonderful to be back. And the ants kept marching.

There were speeches and toasts, people were saying lovely things, he was sure, but his mind kept wandering back to the speeches during the last dinner in camp.
Mrs. Potter's Mr. Potter.
I love you all.
Pig farmer.
Work in the States, in a hospital.
The way her hair had spilled over her shoulders as she spoke.
Proud of you all.
Later, her cheeks had glistened with tears in the dim light of her tent. Her skin had felt like silk when he buried his face in the crook of her neck, mouthing words he was too much of a coward to speak out loud.
He thought of how well their bodies had fit together, how his formed a hollow just meant for her as he held her close afterward, the flowery scent of her hair filling up his entire being.
He scratched his neck and thought of her in Tokyo, dancing with someone that wasn't him, smiling that smile that came from deep within and could light up a city. The one you had to earn.

He raised his glass and toasted, the champagne tasted like hour old gin with a tang of copper. Real champagne made her nose tickle. He chuckled at the thought, which was probably not the right thing to do because people looked a bit uncomfortable.

There was soft jazz playing, he couldn't tell who was singing, Billie Holiday maybe.
Margaret's favorite singer was Doris Day because she sang with a tear in her voice.
Hawkeye had heard her tell Frank that one night in the O-club when they were dancing close to the table where Hawkeye was sitting whispering sweet nothings into the ear of Nurse Browers or Flowers or whatever her name was. He had looked up at the sound of Margaret's voice, there had been a dreamy quality to it he hadn't heard before, and suddenly he felt inexplicably annoyed at Frank's hand on her waist, his beady eyes, and shrill giggle. It made Hawkeye unfocused, and for reasons he couldn't explain, he had lost interest in the pretty thing at his table, had just continued to stare at the dancing couple, and didn't even react when Browers or Flowers left. It was not the outcome for the evening he had expected, but Frank's hand looked so wrong, and he wasn't even listening to what Margaret was saying.
Hawkeye had come back to The Swamp alone, Frank's bed empty of course. He would come back in the early morning, whistling in that smug way he always did when he'd gotten lucky. He'd left his cap on the bed, though, and Hawkeye had accidentally on purpose knocked it down and stepped on it seven or eight times before kicking it under the bed.

He moved through the house, in and out of embraces. At some point, a plate of food had been placed in his hands. During the endless hours trapped in a metallic tube up among the clouds, he had spent quite some time imagining the first dinner back home. A perfectly barbequed steak and those potatoes his dad made in the oven with the breadcrumbs on top. Garlic bread. Strawberry shortcake for dessert. But what he had was a plate of cold cuts, potato salad, and Mrs. Gellar's deviled eggs. "I remember how much you love them," she had beamed at him. Did he? When had he ever had any?
They seemed vaguely threatening, somehow, sliding around the plate, staring up at him.
The ants seemed to have focused on his neck, but he couldn't scratch it with the plate in one hand and a glass in the other. He looked around for a place to set it down, but all he could see were bodies, just bodies moving and moving. Like seaweed.

People's mouths were moving too, but he couldn't really make out what they were saying anymore, it sounded like he was listening from a great distance or like he was underwater. Among the seaweed. Like Henry.
Hawkeye's field of vision narrowed. He hadn't even had a chance to change out of his sweaty, rumpled clothes, and every time he moved, he could smell himself. When was the last time he showered?
There were too many people in the house, it wasn't safe, there wasn't enough air, people could suffocate, he had to get off the bus. The house, he had to get out of the house.

"I have to go to the latrine," he blurted out, way too loud, making everyone stop and stare.

The summer night was velvety smooth and mercifully free from people. He hurried across the lawn and followed the narrow path down to the beach. The stones rattling under his feet felt more like home than anything else so far, except for his father's arms. Maybe some of the stones had been carried by the current all the way from Korea.

The ocean was calm and beautiful in the darkness, and he wanted nothing more than to walk into the water and just stand there. Maybe that would stop the ants from marching. But that would be crazy, only an insane person would stand in the ocean to drown imaginary ants. On the evening of his Welcome Home-party.
But dear God, how good the water would feel.


Authors Note:

The first sentence of this story popped into my head when I was out for a walk one day. "Interesting sentence", I thought, "I wonder what comes next." Turns out a whole bunch of sentences came next. At first, I thought this was going to be short, just tiny glimpses of Margaret's and Hawkeye's lives after Korea, but the story had a will of its own, as it turned out.
So, 14 chapters later, here we are.
The title, "Moving Near the Edge at Night," comes from a Julee Cruise song called "The World Spins." It's performed in "Twin Peaks." It popped into my head while writing (lots of things popping into my head, apparently) and it just captures the mood of this story.
I don't own any part of the song, or any part of MASH, I am just playing with the characters for a little bit.
English isn't my first language, so I apologize for any grammatical errors.
I have enjoyed writing this immensely, and I hope someone will enjoy reading it. The first two chapters are up 24/4 and I will post the rest in teams of two, Wednesdays and Sundays