lovethyneighb_or | IC inbox (pumpkin hollow)

It’s only a little, just barely, but he flinches. Still Radar’s hand settles gently on his elbow.

“I’m sorry,” again, it’s the kind of pleading you do when it isn’t that you expect to avoid getting struck, but perhaps you won’t be struck as hard; not that he’d expect it from Radar, but he’s just so used to doing it. That’s his whole problem. He doesn’t know how to live in peace anymore. “I didn’t mean to. I…”

Mea culpa. Mea culpa. Mea maxima culpa.

Francis sounded just the same as Radar carried him through the maze. Convinced of pain before it would arrive, too young to be thinking anything like that. The war Mulcahy's been fighting started a long, long time before Radar ever met him.

"I know," he says, and there, finally, his voice cracks.

He can't carry Mulcahy anymore. Still, his arms go around him, gentle as ever.

Mulcahy holds his breath. It's not the first time Radar's touched him since he arrived, but it feels like it is.

Slowly, gently, Mulcahy's arms go around Radar, brushing the back of his jacket.

He settles into the embrace; tightens it a little, like he'd hold a frightened lamb to keep it from kicking too hard and hurting itself. "It's okay," he says, still in that fractured whisper, more a prayer than a reassurance. Let it be okay.

"I forgive you, sir."

And of course Radar does. He still doesn’t feel like he deserves it, but Radar does. Radar has always been so—so unfailingly decent, and to think Mulcahy only ever knew him in war.

The thing about holding the pieces of yourself in a vice grip to keep it together so that you can still resemble a person, is that at some point, if you want to let go, you have to fall. Have to open the kitchen cabinet with the spilled plates leaning against the door. If you want to catch it, it can’t be you. He doesn’t need a strong hand there. He just needs one at all.

Mulcahy’s hands grip the back of Radar’s shirt, and quietly, he breaks into childish weeping.

Oh no oh no oh no --

"Hey," and it's a real fight to keep from sounding half as scared as he feels all of a sudden, "hey, no, don't cry, it's okay." He clutches tight to Mulcahy. "It's okay. It's okay."

For a little while, that's all Radar can say. Like a skipping record, or like it'll come true if he just says it enough times, he repeats those two words over and over, so quiet nobody will ever hear it outside the garden.

What panacea, that tenderness, that kindness from someone he loves, wholly and entirely loves. He's helpless against the way it opens up his chest to make him weep harder. Radar must know how much he cares for him.

"I'm sorry--" he says between gasps, but it's not so stricken anymore. There's something missing, like dust swept away. He weeps, weeps, weeps, legs shaking with the effort of keeping him upright when all he wants to do is sink to the ground. But he won't drag Radar with him; but he doesn't want to let go.

But the well dries. He sniffs, scrubs at his eyes. The first moment he can gather himself enough to, he speaks. "I'm sorry for scaring you. It's--it's alright. Really. I... I'm not sure how to explain."

He takes his glasses off to clean them. "After a long time of not being allowed to express myself at all, it feels... well, I felt as though I could with you."

He's proud of himself for not buckling. The momentary panic has drained away, and honestly, Radar feels a little wobbly himself without the immediate adrenaline propping him up. But he still doesn't fold; he just nods, looking up at Mulcahy.

"Yeah, Vickie told me a little about that, too." Still quiet, but steadier. "If I couldn't do much crying for six years straight I'd wanna cry for weeks once I could again. It's okay, Father, really."

"Yes, well..."

Oh, those are big fat tears dropping out of his eyes again. He sniffs and scrubs uselessly at them, but he gets the feeling that this is going to be on and off for some time. He turns to go sit on the back porch, gesturing for Radar to follow.

When he swallows enough to speak again, "You have no idea how terribly I missed you. Even though the war had already stolen us from our homes, waking up in that place every day was a bitter reminder of how I had been stolen from the 4077th."

He stop, a look of some kind of realization on his face. He scrubs at his eyes.

(It's the first time he's been able to freely say that number since he got here.)

"... at some point, I had given up on ever seeing any of you again. And yet, here you are. As honest and kind and true as I remember you were. I'm sorry for how difficult I've been."

"You're not being difficult," says Radar, sounding honestly surprised Mulcahy could ever say a thing like that. "I just been worried, that's all. Even before I knew everything I knew something bad'd happened." He sighs. "I shoulda asked sooner what I could do."

He wouldn't've needed to if this was the Mulcahy he knew back home; he just would've known, same as he knows how to handle everything else in camp. But Radar understands by now, really understands, that this isn't the same person, no matter what Vickie told him. Not even because he killed someone, either. You don't live through what Mulcahy went through and come out the same on the other side.

“Have I not been?” he says, just as surprised. “I have been secretive and erratic and—I know that I have not been easy to be friends with.”

With all his paranoias and neuroses and shadows, it’s all he can think about. How every instance of his unhappiness upon another must be at best, an opportunity to feel better about helping someone needy, and at worst, a burden. He’s a mess, broken in his core, and somewhere in his mind he can still hear what 2’s Village has beat into him hundreds of times: a still tongue makes a happy life. How can he be casual company for him?

It must be terrible, for Radar to find that his friend has gone from comforting to exhausting.

Radar, who once tried to befriend a North Korean soldier who snuck into the chow line and couldn't understand a lick of English, just shrugs.

"I don't think so," is all he says. Simple as that.

It moves the world.

He hunches over, covering his face with his hands entirely, because he knows the expression he's going to make as he sobs openly will be an unpleasant one.

There's nothing else to be but vulnerable with Radar here like this, and for Mulcahy, to be vulnerable is to be devastated, because that's what he is underneath. He wants to bolt, he wants to wail and claw at him and demand how he can stand there and be so forgiving, so uncomplicated with no catch. It means that this is all there is; Radar tells him the truth, and the truth is this and only this: he would have him as his friend. Mulcahy wants to think, "But." But there is nothing else. He has no more excuse to torture himself over his wretchedness if he is not wretched to him after all, but--but--

It's the same feeling he felt with Hawkeye. He could bear any cruelty better than this kindness.

This time, the flailing panic doesn't latch on. It's just a blip on the screen inside his head, the briefest ping of worry: did I say the wrong thing?

Then he listens through the lingering headache, swallows hard to get the lump out of his throat, and wraps his arm around Mulcahy's shoulders again, leaning close. He sniffles a little bit, just once, but doesn't say anything. The gesture says enough on its own.

I'm here. I'm still here.

Intolerably, blessedly, devastatingly, miraculously, Radar is still here. Impossibly, at the end of the dark valley, he is still here.

He curls into him. Mulcahy's taller than him by a good few inches, but he's never felt so small in his life. He feels like a child. More than that (and this is why he can afford to act this way at all), he feels sheltered. When was the last time he felt like this? Like there was anything at his back? Like he could come in from the cold?

(Angel. Gaeta. Is this what they meant? Do they think about him like this too? Oh, God.)

He's a quiet crier, at least; the only sounds he makes are breathy gasps. Peter jingles quietly as he approaches again, chirping in concern as he touches down on Mulcahy's head.

It's like they're back in that maze again, Mulcahy flickering between the grown-up Radar knows, the person he became, and the kid he used to be. Radar holds him as securely as he held Francis, letting him cry against his side. He didn't think twice about picking up Francis when he had to, even though Francis was almost too big for it and he wasn't completely sure he'd be able to carry him easily. But he did it. He's carried and sheltered Mulcahy before; so he can do it again.

When Peter lands, a tiny smile twitches Radar's mouth, just for a second. "Hey Peter," he whispers, as quiet as he can. "Good boy. Good keyring."

Edited 2024-11-09 19:22 (UTC)

Peter chir-chirrups, lifting off to bop briefly against Radar’s face (this is a well-loved creature who receives lots of kisses on its little metal head for sure) before landing down on Mulcahy again.

The proverbial well of tears will never dry, but one’s arms get tired of hauling up bucket after bucket. Eventually he wears himself out enough to stop. He settles, and just… sighs, staying right where he is. How unspeakably wonderful it is, to be free to be weak. He feels convalescent in a lot of ways, only he wishes the matter was as straightforward as redressing his wounds.

“Thank you, Radar,” he says.

The nature of a MASH unit is to move patients through as quick as you can. Patch them up good enough to get them out to Seoul or Tokyo if they need more care; never let them stay in a bed for too long if another wounded soldier can occupy it instead. It's so rare you get to linger. So if Mulcahy's convalescing, then it's kind of nice that Radar can take the time to do just that.

"You're welcome, sir."

As long as Mulcahy stays here today, Radar will too.

IC inbox (pumpkin hollow)

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

wrapping?

wrap <3