Disgustingly late birthday fic.
Jul. 26th, 2006 11:19 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
whathoFor Jen. M*A*S*H. Sort of Hawkeye/Frank. About 600 words. Sadly, it didn't take a long time because it's BRILLIANCE but because I find Frank...challenging. But enjoyable to write. Hurrah.
*
Margaret's singing did not send Hawkeye to sleep. It wasn't wholly tuneful, but that didn't grate. It was happy singing in the wake of another bloody day...but Hawk, cracking half a dozen jokes a minute as he peeled his soiled gloves away, understood that.
He lay staring at the threadbare canvas, the bucket of limbs out of his fitful ten-hour waking dream dancing still before his eyes, and he pondered a question. Did she sing because he'd left her in such a mood or only because he'd left her?
Frank fell sideways into the tent and threw himself onto his cot, arching and snapping his spine like a dying dolphin. Hawkeye rose, languidly swearing, and pulled the man's boots off. Trapper raised an eyebrow, holding a question on his open palm.
'That'd be the war,' said Hawkeye. 'Makes me do a lot of things I hate.' And he made damn sure to clip Frank on the temple as he swung the boots to the ground.
Trapper rolled onto his ribs with a sigh. The drink and the sleep had left him.
'Back early, Frank,' he said.
He puffed and snorted. 'Margaret doesn't want me.'
'Why's she singing?'
Hawkeye laced his fingers behind his head and leaned into the solid pillow. She was still in strong voice, still out of tune with the iron-scented camp. He'd taken her far.
'Well, I don't mean she didn't have the time of her life. I just tired her out, I guess.'
'Right, Frank.'
'Why does Margaret ever want you for, Frank?' Hawkeye sat up, squinting in the sudden glare through the gaping tent flap.
'Aside from your matinee idol looks,' said Trapper.
'Your sparkling wit.'
'Your personal charm.'
'We-ee-ell...' said Frank in an ear-splitting whine, 'I think it's mostly because I'm extraordinarily good in bed.'
'Aha,' said Hawkeye, falling back out of the moonlight.
Trapper turned in his blanket. 'I'm feeling overeducated all of a sudden.'
'I can kiss in a way that makes you tingle in your spleen.'
'Can it, Frank.'
'That's what Margaret says.'
Hawkeye screwed his face up a minute and propped himself on an elbow. 'In your spleen, Frank?'
'She has a beautiful spleen. I felt it once when she was all swollen up with mononucleosis.'
'Frank, please.' Trapper emerged briefly from his cocoon.
'He's gotta be right though,' said Hawkeye, swinging his feet to the floor. 'What else has he got?'
'He's got money.'
'Trap, I couldn't get that money out of him with a gallon of chloroform and a scalpel.'
'Well, I vote she just likes using him for target practice. Frank, you have a very whippable body.'
Hawkeye perched his hip on the edge of Frank's cot. The major smelt of sweat, cheap perfume and very cheap wine. Hawkeye ran his tongue around the inside of his lips and caught again the burn of that evening's brew.
'So show me,' he whispered. It elicited a squeak and a smile. 'You know what I think. So give me something.'
'You're not?'
Frank swayed upright, giggling, his eyelids falling. Hawkeye caught him with a hand behind the head.
'You're going to hate yourself in the morning.'
He held Frank clinically, like a dummy for first aid training.
'It is morning,' he said.
*
He lay awake the rest of that night, listening to Margaret's singing, grinding his teeth, hating everyone, loving something slightly.
*
Margaret's singing did not send Hawkeye to sleep. It wasn't wholly tuneful, but that didn't grate. It was happy singing in the wake of another bloody day...but Hawk, cracking half a dozen jokes a minute as he peeled his soiled gloves away, understood that.
He lay staring at the threadbare canvas, the bucket of limbs out of his fitful ten-hour waking dream dancing still before his eyes, and he pondered a question. Did she sing because he'd left her in such a mood or only because he'd left her?
Frank fell sideways into the tent and threw himself onto his cot, arching and snapping his spine like a dying dolphin. Hawkeye rose, languidly swearing, and pulled the man's boots off. Trapper raised an eyebrow, holding a question on his open palm.
'That'd be the war,' said Hawkeye. 'Makes me do a lot of things I hate.' And he made damn sure to clip Frank on the temple as he swung the boots to the ground.
Trapper rolled onto his ribs with a sigh. The drink and the sleep had left him.
'Back early, Frank,' he said.
He puffed and snorted. 'Margaret doesn't want me.'
'Why's she singing?'
Hawkeye laced his fingers behind his head and leaned into the solid pillow. She was still in strong voice, still out of tune with the iron-scented camp. He'd taken her far.
'Well, I don't mean she didn't have the time of her life. I just tired her out, I guess.'
'Right, Frank.'
'Why does Margaret ever want you for, Frank?' Hawkeye sat up, squinting in the sudden glare through the gaping tent flap.
'Aside from your matinee idol looks,' said Trapper.
'Your sparkling wit.'
'Your personal charm.'
'We-ee-ell...' said Frank in an ear-splitting whine, 'I think it's mostly because I'm extraordinarily good in bed.'
'Aha,' said Hawkeye, falling back out of the moonlight.
Trapper turned in his blanket. 'I'm feeling overeducated all of a sudden.'
'I can kiss in a way that makes you tingle in your spleen.'
'Can it, Frank.'
'That's what Margaret says.'
Hawkeye screwed his face up a minute and propped himself on an elbow. 'In your spleen, Frank?'
'She has a beautiful spleen. I felt it once when she was all swollen up with mononucleosis.'
'Frank, please.' Trapper emerged briefly from his cocoon.
'He's gotta be right though,' said Hawkeye, swinging his feet to the floor. 'What else has he got?'
'He's got money.'
'Trap, I couldn't get that money out of him with a gallon of chloroform and a scalpel.'
'Well, I vote she just likes using him for target practice. Frank, you have a very whippable body.'
Hawkeye perched his hip on the edge of Frank's cot. The major smelt of sweat, cheap perfume and very cheap wine. Hawkeye ran his tongue around the inside of his lips and caught again the burn of that evening's brew.
'So show me,' he whispered. It elicited a squeak and a smile. 'You know what I think. So give me something.'
'You're not?'
Frank swayed upright, giggling, his eyelids falling. Hawkeye caught him with a hand behind the head.
'You're going to hate yourself in the morning.'
He held Frank clinically, like a dummy for first aid training.
'It is morning,' he said.
*
He lay awake the rest of that night, listening to Margaret's singing, grinding his teeth, hating everyone, loving something slightly.
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no subject
Date: 2006-07-26 10:54 pm (UTC)Their voices are DIVINELY SENT FROM . . . whoever originally wrote mash and their voice boxes and things that are actually where their voices come from but that apparently I don't know and should have structured my sentence better around that lack of knowing, BUT YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN PROBABLY. Perfect! Their voices are perfect! And you are GENIUS. And this is BEAUTIFUL and I LOVE IT.
::marries you secretly::
no subject
Date: 2006-07-26 10:56 pm (UTC)Am quite excited about being secretly married, but it's a shame we have to miss out on the toast racks.
no subject
Date: 2006-07-26 11:30 pm (UTC)'That'd be the war,' said Hawkeye. 'Makes me do a lot of things I hate.'
because it is perfection, yes.
So, yes, generally I have nothing but LOVE and I think you probably win. *gloves*
no subject
Date: 2006-07-27 06:11 am (UTC)