He wants to wail, to sob, to throw himself at Hawkeye’s feet, to curse him and beg him to make up his mind and either absolve him or condemn him from his life, but that would ruin the conversation. So.
“Of course I do,” and it’s more plaintive than he meant for it to be, but not nearly as much as he feels. “I can barely think of anything else. But I—I never…”
He grabs the kettle. He searches for the words, for some place to begin, but there is nothing that he can say that doesn’t begin with what happened with the old Hawkeye, so stained with him is Mulcahy’s heart and mind. In the smallest fit of frustration, he strikes open the faucet, water flooding in.
“I didn’t mean to keep anything as a secret as such, but I… Hawkeye, the version of you that was on the ship…”
He looks at the ceiling. “We endured such terrible and bloody, daily horrors. Both of us, together. I am being entirely honest when I say that I believe it was some measure of true Hell. I can remember each and every time you died before my eyes, and every time I was there for you when you came back. I dream of it.
“We were close, closer than we’d ever been during the war, a-and perhaps because of that and the desperation of our circumstances, you… you asked something of me. Something I could never give you. And every day you begged me, and always I withheld, and I watched you wither from the heartbreak of it. You were sick with longing. The death of the body is one thing, but this was eating your soul.”
There’s clearly more that he’s gearing up to say, but he’s paused for long enough for Hawkeye to cut in if he chooses.
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Date: 2024-09-27 03:37 am (UTC)“Of course I do,” and it’s more plaintive than he meant for it to be, but not nearly as much as he feels. “I can barely think of anything else. But I—I never…”
He grabs the kettle. He searches for the words, for some place to begin, but there is nothing that he can say that doesn’t begin with what happened with the old Hawkeye, so stained with him is Mulcahy’s heart and mind. In the smallest fit of frustration, he strikes open the faucet, water flooding in.
“I didn’t mean to keep anything as a secret as such, but I… Hawkeye, the version of you that was on the ship…”
He looks at the ceiling. “We endured such terrible and bloody, daily horrors. Both of us, together. I am being entirely honest when I say that I believe it was some measure of true Hell. I can remember each and every time you died before my eyes, and every time I was there for you when you came back. I dream of it.
“We were close, closer than we’d ever been during the war, a-and perhaps because of that and the desperation of our circumstances, you… you asked something of me. Something I could never give you. And every day you begged me, and always I withheld, and I watched you wither from the heartbreak of it. You were sick with longing. The death of the body is one thing, but this was eating your soul.”
There’s clearly more that he’s gearing up to say, but he’s paused for long enough for Hawkeye to cut in if he chooses.