janecarnall (![[info]](http://www.insanejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} janecarnall) wrote,@ 2004-11-27 00:49:00 |
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Mirror M*A*S*H, part 6
Part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, and part 5.
The man had guts. A dislocated joint provided the kind of steady pain that never faded, that you could never get used to. But the only noise out of him, after the first howl, was a kind of sobbing moan – a breathy sound that was clearly nothing he could suppress. Those were the worst kind of wounded – or the best: this man would stay alive a long time.
A long time. Five minutes, the Colonel had said. Hawkeye stepped forward twice, not even thinking about it, to take hold of that drooping arm and end the painful sound. The second time, the Colonel moved his hand, conspicuously, to the handgrip of his gun. “Five minutes, Pierce,” he said again.
It ticked down. Hawkeye knelt to take hold of the man’s arm and shoulder, feeling how he could get joint and socket reconnected. The man’s breath was coming in gulps now, and it was hard to see the difference between the sweat and the tears on his face. “Trap? You got anything he can bite down on?”
“Pierce,” the Colonel said. “You understand why I did this?”
“Sure. Five minutes, you said.”
“It can be as long as you like,” the Colonel said. He crouched down. “Because unless you make me believe you’ve understood, I may have to do this again.”
Hawkeye looked up. He met the Colonel’s eyes. “Yes,” he said. “I understand.” He hadn’t bought a dog in Seoul: he’d bought a leash.
Silently, Trapper handed Hawkeye his belt. Hawkeye pried the man’s jaw open and pushed the leather strap inside. “Take hold and bite down hard when you need it. This is going to hurt.”
It didn’t take long to put a joint back into alignment. The man made a hissing grunt, but then his face smoothed out – the sudden relief from pain was also typical of a dislocated joint once it was relocated. His jaw relaxed: Hawkeye retrieved the belt. There were deep toothmarks in it.
“You don’t need a dentist, anyway,” Hawkeye said.
The man was looking directly at the Colonel. His voice was hoarse and broken. “BJ – why?”
Hawkeye drew in a breath: the Colonel lifted his hand. “It’s okay, Pierce. He’s in shock. I’m sure you’ll find time to explain to him later how he’s supposed to behave. Won’t you?”
“Yes,” Hawkeye said. “Colonel sir.”
“Well?” the Colonel said, after a pause. “He asked ‘why’. You said you understood. Explain it to him.”
Hawkeye made himself look at the man. “The Colonel wants to make it clear to me what’s going to happen to you if I misbehave.”
“I’m not unreasonable, Pierce,” the Colonel said, standing up. “Major Burns complains about you almost as much as you complain about him. Major Houlihan complains about you and Captain McIntyre. Major Winchester complains about everything. I don’t mind handling that: it’s part of the job. But the next time someone from outside this unit complains to me of you, and with good cause, you know what I’m going to do?”
“You’re going to dislocate his arm,” Hawkeye said. He tried on a grin.
The Colonel wasn’t smiling. Arms folded, he was looking down at Hawkeye and the man. “I’m going to apologise to whoever it is. Soothe them down. Explain to them what a brilliant cutter you are, Pierce, and why therefore we have to give you a bit more slack than normal military discipline would expect. And when I’ve done all that – ” He bent down and laid his hand across the nape of the man’s neck, and Hawkeye saw the man shudder “ – then I’m going to come find Francis and dislocate his arm.” He was looking at Hawkeye directly, his eyes very clear. “Now do you understand?”
“Yes.” Hawkeye hardly recognised his own voice. “Yes, Colonel. Sir. Understood.”
The man’s breathing was still uneven. The Colonel crouched down by him, and eyed him assessingly. “Francis.”
The man swallowed, nodded.
“Tell me how you got here.”
The story didn’t sound any more believable the second time through, and it didn’t look as if the Colonel were going to believe it. The only thing in its favour was something the Colonel couldn’t know.
“It’s the same story he told me this morning,” Hawkeye said.
The Colonel’s gaze flashed up and considered Hawkeye for a moment. His hand was still curled round the nape of the man’s neck. He said nothing, but stood up, letting the man go. “Pierce. I’ll have a word with you outside.”
The man was shivering. Hawkeye stood up and followed the Colonel out.
“Okay,” Hawkeye said. “I get the message.”
“I hope so.” The Colonel stood still, looking out across the compound. “That’s the craziest story I ever heard. Did you make it up by yourself, or did McIntyre help?”
“That’s the story he told me this morning,” Hawkeye said.
The Colonel’s look was half-amused. “I’m impressed. I suppose I could hurt him some more until he told me how you got the story to him.”
“Are you going to?” Hawkeye tried to look impassive.
“Should I? What did you have in mind?”
“Colonel, the story sounds just as crazy to me. But whoever made it up, it wasn’t me.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
The Colonel shrugged. “Radar’s looking for his tracks before he showed up in that brothel,” he said. “You’re right, he sounds American. And if there’s some way to prove that, you can manumit him and send him home. But I promise you, he’s staying round your neck till then – unless it turns out he was set up to be one of your practical jokes, in which case…” The Colonel smiled, confidentially. “You’re going to wish you’d never tried this on me.” He put his hand on Hawkeye’s shoulder, and gripped him, shaking him back and forth. “But your man’s going to wish he was never born. Or, if he’s a clearer thinker, he’s going to wish you were never born.”
He turned away, leaving Hawkeye looking after him. “Thanks,” he muttered. He stuck his hands in his pockets. “Why the hell did I start this?”
The man was still crouched in the middle of the floor, his gaze fixed on the door. Trapper was sitting on the end of his bunk, chin on fist, contemplating the man: he looked up slowly as Hawkeye came in.
“I’ve been thinking,” he said.
“Yeah?” Hawkeye was relieved to have an excuse not to look at the man.
“I think he’s more trouble than he’s worth,” Trapper said.
Hawkeye dug his hands more deeply into his pockets. His gaze drifted back to the man’s face. He sat down on his bunk.
Trapper passed him a glass. Hawkeye looked at it. “Is this a double martini?”
“No, it’s a treble.”
“Looks more like a soprano to me.” Hawkeye shifted round, easing himself down. He drank. “Finest kind.”
“So.” Trapper leaned forward. “Do we get him drunk or fuck him?”
Hawkeye tilted his head back and laughed. He was conscious of Trapper rescuing his glass before it spilled, but not of anything else. He was laughing so hard his jaw hurt and his eyes was watering. He wasn’t crying – there was nothing to cry for. He’d chosen to be here.
After a while, he stopped laughing. He was curled up in his bunk, his arms wrapped round his head. Trapper was sitting at the end of his bunk: Hawkeye could feel his weight. He uncurled, unwrapping his arms, and looked out.
Trapper was still sitting on the edge of his own bunk. The weight at the end of Hawkeye’s bunk was the man, looking at Hawkeye with a troubled expression.
“Hawkeye?” Trapper said.
“Sure,” Hawkeye said. His head was aching. “Sure. Right. Yeah. I need – I should take him over to the infirmary, check out his shoulder.”
“He’ll be fine. You okay?”
Hawkeye nodded. “Sure.”
“I’m heading over to the mess tent. Want me to bring you back a tray?”
“Yeah. Thanks.” Hawkeye nodded.
Trapper stood up. “Okay. Francis, you come with me.”
The man sat still. Hawkeye stared back at him.
Trapper whistled. “Come on,” he said, with mild impatience. When the man didn’t move, he took hold of his right arm and pulled.
To Hawkeye’s astonishment – he was familiar with the aftereffects of dislocating a joint – the man moved his left arm to grab at Hawkeye’s leg. His grip wasn’t much – and wouldn’t be for a day or so – but as Trapper pulled him away from Hawkeye he gasped and dived forward, breaking free from Trapper’s grasp and somehow crawling up the bunk, landing next to Hawkeye.
“Come on,” Trapper said, startled.
From this angle, Hawkeye was looking directly at the man: his face was inches from Hawkeye’s, and he looked terrified.
“Trapper’s not going to hurt you,” Hawkeye said. He put his hand on the man’s right shoulder. “Just go have lunch.”
“I wasn’t planning to hurt him,” Trapper said. He sounded amused: he couldn’t see the man’s face. “Lunch might, but I won’t.”
“Please,” the man said. He was making a credible effort to keep his voice steady. “I’m not hungry.”
Trapper took hold of him – still, Hawkeye could see, being careful not to stress the left shoulder – and tugged. The man pushed himself closer to Hawkeye. Pressed up against him, Hawkeye could feel him shivering. Shuddering.
“Please,” he said again.
Hawkeye put his arm round him. “Okay.” He felt the man relax: whether it was because of what he’d said or what he’d done, he didn’t know. “Get out of here, Trap. We’ll talk about it.” He met Trapper’s eyes and tried to signal a shrug.
Trapper shrugged and shook his head. “This isn’t good, Hawkeye.”
That was unexpectedly funny. Hawkeye laughed. “No, it’s really not,” he acknowledged. “Later, okay?”
“Right,” Trapper said finally. He went out.
There was a pause. The ache in Hawkeye’s head was stamping up and down his skull demanding aspirin.
“Hawkeye?”
“If you can’t do what you’re told, can’t you at least shut up?” Hawkeye asked wearily.
The man said nothing further. He lay still. He wasn’t shivering, at least. The solid warmth would have felt pretty good, if it hadn’t been made clear by the Colonel what it meant.
“Okay,” Hawkeye said finally. His headache wouldn’t get any better like this. “Get up. We’re heading over to the infirmary.”
One of Houlihan’s lieutenants was on duty in the infirmary: she gave Hawkeye the usual half-frightened, half-fascinated look, and obeyed his thumbed order to get out. Not, however, without giving the man a look of basic curiosity. Houlihan had been talking. Or Burns had.
Two aspirins, with water. If that didn’t work to kill the headache, there were stronger measures available.
The Colonel had dislocated the man’s arm cleanly and neatly: Hawkeye had managed to put it back without any additional complications. It would hurt for a few days, but if not put under any further stress, it would heal normally. “Remember to keep it in that sling, and don’t use it,” Hawkeye added. “If you need help, let me or Trapper know.”
The aspirins were working. Hawkeye had put the man on one examination table: he sat on the edge of the other, and rubbed his forehead. “You can have aspirin for the pain, if you want it,” he added. There wasn’t much more he could give to non-military personnel without going through channels, and all channels came up against the Colonel. “That isn’t why you wouldn’t go with Trapper, is it? Why are you so scared of him?”
The man swallowed. “Because – ” He stopped. “Do I have to – ?”
“Yeah,” Hawkeye said. “If you’re scared of Frank Burns, I can understand that. If you’re wary of the Colonel, that’s only reasonable. But terrified of Trapper John McIntyre? He’s not going to hurt you. You’ve got no reason to think he’ll hurt you. And the Colonel’s less likely to hurt you when Trap’s got you under his wing than me.”
“He – ” The man brought his right hand up to his face, his left hand trailing behind. He swallowed, again, and said, in a voice he seemed to be trying to keep even, “he wants to have sex with me.”
Hawkeye laughed. He couldn’t help it. “So do I.”
The man’s hands fell. He stared at Hawkeye, his eyes widening. “You said you didn’t want me – ”
Hawkeye shrugged. “I kind of wish I’d walked out on you in the brothel, right now. I’m flat broke, except for five bucks in small change, I have a pounding headache, and the Colonel’s got me on a tight leash that looks pretty much like you. Sex with you isn’t going to make up for all that, but it’s cheap, it’s good for tension headaches, and after all, the Colonel’s going to yank my chain whether I’m fucking you or not.” He paused. The man was looking at him with the kind of fear that had horrified Hawkeye in the brothel. Right now he felt too irritated to care, with one thing and another, though his head still had that echoey feel of a headache lurking behind aspirin.“And it really isn’t going to hurt. Trust me on this.” He slipped off the table. “I’ve done this before. You could say I’m an expert.”
to part 7
Part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, and part 5.
The man had guts. A dislocated joint provided the kind of steady pain that never faded, that you could never get used to. But the only noise out of him, after the first howl, was a kind of sobbing moan – a breathy sound that was clearly nothing he could suppress. Those were the worst kind of wounded – or the best: this man would stay alive a long time.
A long time. Five minutes, the Colonel had said. Hawkeye stepped forward twice, not even thinking about it, to take hold of that drooping arm and end the painful sound. The second time, the Colonel moved his hand, conspicuously, to the handgrip of his gun. “Five minutes, Pierce,” he said again.
It ticked down. Hawkeye knelt to take hold of the man’s arm and shoulder, feeling how he could get joint and socket reconnected. The man’s breath was coming in gulps now, and it was hard to see the difference between the sweat and the tears on his face. “Trap? You got anything he can bite down on?”
“Pierce,” the Colonel said. “You understand why I did this?”
“Sure. Five minutes, you said.”
“It can be as long as you like,” the Colonel said. He crouched down. “Because unless you make me believe you’ve understood, I may have to do this again.”
Hawkeye looked up. He met the Colonel’s eyes. “Yes,” he said. “I understand.” He hadn’t bought a dog in Seoul: he’d bought a leash.
Silently, Trapper handed Hawkeye his belt. Hawkeye pried the man’s jaw open and pushed the leather strap inside. “Take hold and bite down hard when you need it. This is going to hurt.”
It didn’t take long to put a joint back into alignment. The man made a hissing grunt, but then his face smoothed out – the sudden relief from pain was also typical of a dislocated joint once it was relocated. His jaw relaxed: Hawkeye retrieved the belt. There were deep toothmarks in it.
“You don’t need a dentist, anyway,” Hawkeye said.
The man was looking directly at the Colonel. His voice was hoarse and broken. “BJ – why?”
Hawkeye drew in a breath: the Colonel lifted his hand. “It’s okay, Pierce. He’s in shock. I’m sure you’ll find time to explain to him later how he’s supposed to behave. Won’t you?”
“Yes,” Hawkeye said. “Colonel sir.”
“Well?” the Colonel said, after a pause. “He asked ‘why’. You said you understood. Explain it to him.”
Hawkeye made himself look at the man. “The Colonel wants to make it clear to me what’s going to happen to you if I misbehave.”
“I’m not unreasonable, Pierce,” the Colonel said, standing up. “Major Burns complains about you almost as much as you complain about him. Major Houlihan complains about you and Captain McIntyre. Major Winchester complains about everything. I don’t mind handling that: it’s part of the job. But the next time someone from outside this unit complains to me of you, and with good cause, you know what I’m going to do?”
“You’re going to dislocate his arm,” Hawkeye said. He tried on a grin.
The Colonel wasn’t smiling. Arms folded, he was looking down at Hawkeye and the man. “I’m going to apologise to whoever it is. Soothe them down. Explain to them what a brilliant cutter you are, Pierce, and why therefore we have to give you a bit more slack than normal military discipline would expect. And when I’ve done all that – ” He bent down and laid his hand across the nape of the man’s neck, and Hawkeye saw the man shudder “ – then I’m going to come find Francis and dislocate his arm.” He was looking at Hawkeye directly, his eyes very clear. “Now do you understand?”
“Yes.” Hawkeye hardly recognised his own voice. “Yes, Colonel. Sir. Understood.”
The man’s breathing was still uneven. The Colonel crouched down by him, and eyed him assessingly. “Francis.”
The man swallowed, nodded.
“Tell me how you got here.”
The story didn’t sound any more believable the second time through, and it didn’t look as if the Colonel were going to believe it. The only thing in its favour was something the Colonel couldn’t know.
“It’s the same story he told me this morning,” Hawkeye said.
The Colonel’s gaze flashed up and considered Hawkeye for a moment. His hand was still curled round the nape of the man’s neck. He said nothing, but stood up, letting the man go. “Pierce. I’ll have a word with you outside.”
The man was shivering. Hawkeye stood up and followed the Colonel out.
“Okay,” Hawkeye said. “I get the message.”
“I hope so.” The Colonel stood still, looking out across the compound. “That’s the craziest story I ever heard. Did you make it up by yourself, or did McIntyre help?”
“That’s the story he told me this morning,” Hawkeye said.
The Colonel’s look was half-amused. “I’m impressed. I suppose I could hurt him some more until he told me how you got the story to him.”
“Are you going to?” Hawkeye tried to look impassive.
“Should I? What did you have in mind?”
“Colonel, the story sounds just as crazy to me. But whoever made it up, it wasn’t me.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
The Colonel shrugged. “Radar’s looking for his tracks before he showed up in that brothel,” he said. “You’re right, he sounds American. And if there’s some way to prove that, you can manumit him and send him home. But I promise you, he’s staying round your neck till then – unless it turns out he was set up to be one of your practical jokes, in which case…” The Colonel smiled, confidentially. “You’re going to wish you’d never tried this on me.” He put his hand on Hawkeye’s shoulder, and gripped him, shaking him back and forth. “But your man’s going to wish he was never born. Or, if he’s a clearer thinker, he’s going to wish you were never born.”
He turned away, leaving Hawkeye looking after him. “Thanks,” he muttered. He stuck his hands in his pockets. “Why the hell did I start this?”
The man was still crouched in the middle of the floor, his gaze fixed on the door. Trapper was sitting on the end of his bunk, chin on fist, contemplating the man: he looked up slowly as Hawkeye came in.
“I’ve been thinking,” he said.
“Yeah?” Hawkeye was relieved to have an excuse not to look at the man.
“I think he’s more trouble than he’s worth,” Trapper said.
Hawkeye dug his hands more deeply into his pockets. His gaze drifted back to the man’s face. He sat down on his bunk.
Trapper passed him a glass. Hawkeye looked at it. “Is this a double martini?”
“No, it’s a treble.”
“Looks more like a soprano to me.” Hawkeye shifted round, easing himself down. He drank. “Finest kind.”
“So.” Trapper leaned forward. “Do we get him drunk or fuck him?”
Hawkeye tilted his head back and laughed. He was conscious of Trapper rescuing his glass before it spilled, but not of anything else. He was laughing so hard his jaw hurt and his eyes was watering. He wasn’t crying – there was nothing to cry for. He’d chosen to be here.
After a while, he stopped laughing. He was curled up in his bunk, his arms wrapped round his head. Trapper was sitting at the end of his bunk: Hawkeye could feel his weight. He uncurled, unwrapping his arms, and looked out.
Trapper was still sitting on the edge of his own bunk. The weight at the end of Hawkeye’s bunk was the man, looking at Hawkeye with a troubled expression.
“Hawkeye?” Trapper said.
“Sure,” Hawkeye said. His head was aching. “Sure. Right. Yeah. I need – I should take him over to the infirmary, check out his shoulder.”
“He’ll be fine. You okay?”
Hawkeye nodded. “Sure.”
“I’m heading over to the mess tent. Want me to bring you back a tray?”
“Yeah. Thanks.” Hawkeye nodded.
Trapper stood up. “Okay. Francis, you come with me.”
The man sat still. Hawkeye stared back at him.
Trapper whistled. “Come on,” he said, with mild impatience. When the man didn’t move, he took hold of his right arm and pulled.
To Hawkeye’s astonishment – he was familiar with the aftereffects of dislocating a joint – the man moved his left arm to grab at Hawkeye’s leg. His grip wasn’t much – and wouldn’t be for a day or so – but as Trapper pulled him away from Hawkeye he gasped and dived forward, breaking free from Trapper’s grasp and somehow crawling up the bunk, landing next to Hawkeye.
“Come on,” Trapper said, startled.
From this angle, Hawkeye was looking directly at the man: his face was inches from Hawkeye’s, and he looked terrified.
“Trapper’s not going to hurt you,” Hawkeye said. He put his hand on the man’s right shoulder. “Just go have lunch.”
“I wasn’t planning to hurt him,” Trapper said. He sounded amused: he couldn’t see the man’s face. “Lunch might, but I won’t.”
“Please,” the man said. He was making a credible effort to keep his voice steady. “I’m not hungry.”
Trapper took hold of him – still, Hawkeye could see, being careful not to stress the left shoulder – and tugged. The man pushed himself closer to Hawkeye. Pressed up against him, Hawkeye could feel him shivering. Shuddering.
“Please,” he said again.
Hawkeye put his arm round him. “Okay.” He felt the man relax: whether it was because of what he’d said or what he’d done, he didn’t know. “Get out of here, Trap. We’ll talk about it.” He met Trapper’s eyes and tried to signal a shrug.
Trapper shrugged and shook his head. “This isn’t good, Hawkeye.”
That was unexpectedly funny. Hawkeye laughed. “No, it’s really not,” he acknowledged. “Later, okay?”
“Right,” Trapper said finally. He went out.
There was a pause. The ache in Hawkeye’s head was stamping up and down his skull demanding aspirin.
“Hawkeye?”
“If you can’t do what you’re told, can’t you at least shut up?” Hawkeye asked wearily.
The man said nothing further. He lay still. He wasn’t shivering, at least. The solid warmth would have felt pretty good, if it hadn’t been made clear by the Colonel what it meant.
“Okay,” Hawkeye said finally. His headache wouldn’t get any better like this. “Get up. We’re heading over to the infirmary.”
One of Houlihan’s lieutenants was on duty in the infirmary: she gave Hawkeye the usual half-frightened, half-fascinated look, and obeyed his thumbed order to get out. Not, however, without giving the man a look of basic curiosity. Houlihan had been talking. Or Burns had.
Two aspirins, with water. If that didn’t work to kill the headache, there were stronger measures available.
The Colonel had dislocated the man’s arm cleanly and neatly: Hawkeye had managed to put it back without any additional complications. It would hurt for a few days, but if not put under any further stress, it would heal normally. “Remember to keep it in that sling, and don’t use it,” Hawkeye added. “If you need help, let me or Trapper know.”
The aspirins were working. Hawkeye had put the man on one examination table: he sat on the edge of the other, and rubbed his forehead. “You can have aspirin for the pain, if you want it,” he added. There wasn’t much more he could give to non-military personnel without going through channels, and all channels came up against the Colonel. “That isn’t why you wouldn’t go with Trapper, is it? Why are you so scared of him?”
The man swallowed. “Because – ” He stopped. “Do I have to – ?”
“Yeah,” Hawkeye said. “If you’re scared of Frank Burns, I can understand that. If you’re wary of the Colonel, that’s only reasonable. But terrified of Trapper John McIntyre? He’s not going to hurt you. You’ve got no reason to think he’ll hurt you. And the Colonel’s less likely to hurt you when Trap’s got you under his wing than me.”
“He – ” The man brought his right hand up to his face, his left hand trailing behind. He swallowed, again, and said, in a voice he seemed to be trying to keep even, “he wants to have sex with me.”
Hawkeye laughed. He couldn’t help it. “So do I.”
The man’s hands fell. He stared at Hawkeye, his eyes widening. “You said you didn’t want me – ”
Hawkeye shrugged. “I kind of wish I’d walked out on you in the brothel, right now. I’m flat broke, except for five bucks in small change, I have a pounding headache, and the Colonel’s got me on a tight leash that looks pretty much like you. Sex with you isn’t going to make up for all that, but it’s cheap, it’s good for tension headaches, and after all, the Colonel’s going to yank my chain whether I’m fucking you or not.” He paused. The man was looking at him with the kind of fear that had horrified Hawkeye in the brothel. Right now he felt too irritated to care, with one thing and another, though his head still had that echoey feel of a headache lurking behind aspirin.“And it really isn’t going to hurt. Trust me on this.” He slipped off the table. “I’ve done this before. You could say I’m an expert.”
to part 7