lovethyneighb_or | IC inbox (pumpkin hollow)

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.

"Thanks," he croaks back wetly.

How is it that Mulcahy never feels less like himself than with the people who used to know him best? Hawkeye makes him feel haunted--not just even by that old Hawkeye, but by his past. By what Hawkeye wants him to be.

But he's not here. There's a stranger in the house. (Maybe that's how Hawk feels, with everything Mulcahy remembers of someone else and all the things he didn't do. There's a stranger in the house.)

Mulcahy waits for him to spit at him or curse him, to continue his long enlightenment of every way he has erred and continues to err with him. Or at least to refuse. Or at least remain silent. But Hawkeye says, however strained, however reluctant, thank you.

He had been prepared for insults, but not for this. He could tolerate any form of cruelty better than kindness. The ugliness of him had to be given expression, and if there was anyone who sees it, it's Hawkeye. It feels like a lie. It feels incongruous with the look on his face--Mulcahy can't tell if it's disgust or if he's just paranoid, if it's even for him. But it must be. They're the only ones here.

But Hawkeye says thank you, and he's not willing to fight.

"I'm sorry," he says again, "and I'm sorry I was too cowardly to tell you."

"Yeah, well," Hawk starts, but can't really find something to finish the sentence with. Nobody's perfect feels like the understatement of all time, and 'don't worry about it' isn't something he can say in good faith.

An exhale.

"I should get out of your hair, if there's nothing else," give them both some breathing space. This proximity is going to kill them, they need to try again at a nice arm's length.

It's alright. Mulcahy can read the silence perfectly fine.

"Yes. That might be well." He sighs, pulling away. Considers the window. It's probably still early to pull it back much farther than the little corner of visibility he's vigilantly left open.

Sigh.

"Will I see you around, Hawk?"

Another opportunity for a small mercy. Another chance to grant him some small relief. So he does.

"Yeah, you will. I probably owe you coffee for that tray you brought over, so. You know my hours and when to knock."

It's not a grimace but Hawk offers him a closed-mouth smile stuck tight to his teeth.

"Keep well, Father."

He watches Hawkeye go, hands wringing over each other. Not in a nervous fashion necessarily, just... moving.

"I'll do my best." It's the best that he can promise. "And you as well, Hawkeye."

It isn't until Hawk gets out of the apartment that he feels like he can breathe again. They were in love, Trapper is gone, such big defining things feel like they need time before Hawk can accept them. Time to ruminate, time to bargain and deny them until he can't anymore. And Mulcahy...

Is it strange that it's relieving to know there's a reason he feels so far away?

When Hawk gets back up to his apartment, he opens the curtain on his side to about halfway.

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