"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.
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.
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."
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.
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.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
branchandroot
no subject
Date: 2024-10-30 03:58 pm (UTC)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.
no subject
Date: 2024-10-30 06:03 pm (UTC)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.
no subject
Date: 2024-10-30 09:25 pm (UTC)"I don't think so," is all he says. Simple as that.
no subject
Date: 2024-11-06 11:21 pm (UTC)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.
no subject
Date: 2024-11-07 12:01 am (UTC)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.
no subject
Date: 2024-11-07 03:40 am (UTC)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.
no subject
Date: 2024-11-09 07:20 pm (UTC)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."
wrapping?
Date: 2024-11-20 01:57 am (UTC)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.
wrap <3
Date: 2024-11-20 03:21 am (UTC)"You're welcome, sir."
As long as Mulcahy stays here today, Radar will too.