"Just
One Death Away"
by
Jimaine
It's
cruel and unusual and I *really* don't know where it came from. I'm in a weird
mood today, but I've got a few more stories pending, and those will be better,
I promise!
Rating:
PG, angst, deathfic!
Pairing:
none, Hawkeye's POV
Archive:
mash-slash…somebody *please* resurrect it before I die??? And it can also be
found at T'Len's & Lady Charena's place.
Disclaimer:
none of it's mine, they belong to FOX, all eleven seasons (and don't I hate
them for it), and I'm just borrowing them for a little fun. No profits are
made.
************
Hold your
breath, hold that thought, hold on to the memories. Hold a photograph, hold me
to that promise...just hold *me*...
What used to be the future is now the present and the only thing making it bearable are the memories of the past. Like oxygen, breath by breath, they keep him alive. Not that it matters anymore. Inhale…exhale…inhale pain and take it all into himself…exhale life through his gloved fingers…inhale Trapper John…exhale B.J. Hunnicutt…and each breath tastes of moonshine and blood.
The
sweetish metallic taste dominates, fills his mouth and snakes past his lips in
warm, liquid tendrils. Blood…his own, this time.
Funny
how he's almost forgotten its distinct flavor. This is himself he's tasting,
his life.
Night…October
fog shrouds rural Connecticut…and a beer-inebriated truck-driver loses control
of his rig to run another car – its driver perfectly sober, yes, the irony of
it is beautiful – off the road.
The
perfect recipe, it accomplishes what he's often thought of but always failed to
do.
Maybe
this is for the better, maybe the late Father Mulcahy was right and there is a
God who has now finally decided to listen to his silent prayers. His only
regret is that it hasn't happened sooner, sparing him the decades of waiting
and withering and remembering.
Inhale…exhale…
He
cannot move or see, everything is dark and each breath provides less and less
air. He doesn't panic, though. How odd that there isn't the slightest trace of
fear. And why should there be? All his life he's been on a first-name basis with
Death, engaged forever to his mortal enemy
'Mortal'
being the key-word.
He's
always known that they'd have to step before the altar eventually, that all the
others he's kissed weren't meant to (couldn't!) last. Brief, transient affairs
compared to the promise of eternity. The time has come to tie the knot with the
partner of his destiny…this is the only lasting relationship he is suited for.
In
Korea, that shady world of disbelieving, love seemed always to be leaving.
Now
the one leaving is he, the Hawk's flight has come to an end at last.
Inhale…exhale…sloooooowly…inhale…
It
feels good to belong again. Like someone's once told him, he 'doesn't do alone
very well'. He needs to belong. Hardly a justification for his surrender, but
it's what he tells the little voice that stirs and encourages him to fight for
another minute. He then smothers it with the next breath. It's not rational,
but after being alone for so long, he needs to belong again. He's always
belonged to someone, been so many things…
Mom's
Hawkeye, Dad's Hawkeye, Carlye's Hawkeye, Trapper's Hawkeye, B.J.'s
Hawkeye...never ever simply 'Hawkeye'. Never his own.
He
couldn't cope with being just himself and having himself all to himself. Not
that he can be proud of what he has, body and mind being equally ruined by
drink and loneliness.
Now
ruined for good.
From
somewhere he hears agitated, disembodied voices, growing fainter as his mind
gradually dims.
"Hold
on, sir", some paramedic shouts. "We'll soon have you out of there. Just
stay calm."
It is
cold inside the car, but his body is too numb to feel it. Breathing hurts, too,
and he has to cough, feels the tightness in his chest and the warmth starting
up his tracheae. There's the raspy, tell-tale gurgling sound. Hemoaspiration.
Inhale…exhale...inhale…exhale…inhale…ex—
FINIS