There's a funny thing about grief. Nothing that anyone says is ever adequate to the scale of it, nothing. He knows that. He's broken the news to hundreds of boys that they'll never run on two legs again, told others that he had already removed the bandages from their eyes and there's nothing to be done. Sat with Mulcahy on long nights when the families had to be informed, cracked jokes that he ought to make a madlibs form for his condolences.
Well. It's worse when they don't. Mulcahy offers his feeble, stumbling comfort, and Hawk's gut inverts. Trapper is safe- will be safe, eventually. Cold comfort. Sometimes they'd huddle like children when the parents were arguing, the cot scarcely big enough to hold them both, while shells whistled too close by. Sometimes Hawk could manage a joke- 'we ought to find out what they paint their hospitals with, because I think they use red crosses for target practice'- but other times it was just them until the danger passed. Frank calling them a couple of wimps over his own teeth chattering, and Hawk breathing the same air, pressing his thumb into Trap's tongue to give him anything else to focus on. They say you can spot a wound in the dark from the heat it gives off. Well, Hawk could always find his way to Trap's mouth the same way.
He does, earnestly, try to imagine huddling with Mulcahy the same way. But it's like trying to imagine the purpose of an alien organ. He wouldn't know where to start. What would draw him to seek comfort there. Hawk barely seems to know him at all.
But still, the comfort is offered. A simple 'I'm sorry'. Hawk could labour it more, make him work for it, argue and pester and demand from him. But he won't. A small mercy, offered back. You can stay mad at someone forever, you know, find every reason to turn their kindness back in their face as a failing. Mulcahy has already had his heart broken by Hawk once, he doesn't want to make it a hat trick.
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Date: 2024-10-15 09:07 am (UTC)Well. It's worse when they don't. Mulcahy offers his feeble, stumbling comfort, and Hawk's gut inverts. Trapper is safe- will be safe, eventually. Cold comfort. Sometimes they'd huddle like children when the parents were arguing, the cot scarcely big enough to hold them both, while shells whistled too close by. Sometimes Hawk could manage a joke- 'we ought to find out what they paint their hospitals with, because I think they use red crosses for target practice'- but other times it was just them until the danger passed. Frank calling them a couple of wimps over his own teeth chattering, and Hawk breathing the same air, pressing his thumb into Trap's tongue to give him anything else to focus on. They say you can spot a wound in the dark from the heat it gives off. Well, Hawk could always find his way to Trap's mouth the same way.
He does, earnestly, try to imagine huddling with Mulcahy the same way. But it's like trying to imagine the purpose of an alien organ. He wouldn't know where to start. What would draw him to seek comfort there. Hawk barely seems to know him at all.
But still, the comfort is offered. A simple 'I'm sorry'. Hawk could labour it more, make him work for it, argue and pester and demand from him. But he won't. A small mercy, offered back. You can stay mad at someone forever, you know, find every reason to turn their kindness back in their face as a failing. Mulcahy has already had his heart broken by Hawk once, he doesn't want to make it a hat trick.
"Thanks," he croaks back wetly.