Chapter Text
“What do you mean, you don’t have cranberry sauce? It’s Thanksgiving!”
Ginny Reid frowns at him from behind her cash register, the same frown she gave him when a frog jumped out of his pocket during the first week of school assembly in fifth grade, propping a hand on her hip. “It’s October.”
“It’s Thanksgiving in Canada.”
“Well unless they moved the border recently, you’re out of luck, Doc.”
“Thanks anyway,” he mutters, hefting the bag of groceries into his arms, and heading for the door.
He swears he can still feel the curious gaze of everyone on him, and he tugs his collar up against the wind and gossip.
There’s a chilly breeze blowing as he steps out of the store, rustling the paper sack in his arms and making his eyes water, although the sun is shining deceptively, giving the illusion of warmth.
And then, like a mirage, a trick of the light, Hawkeye swears he sees Charles Emerson Winchester III ducking into the liquor store across the plaza.
It stops him in his tracks, something cold slithering down his spine, like a goose stepped on his grave.
Of course, it’s fitting, since he’s sure he’s just seen a ghost.
It isn’t the first time. In the four months since coming home, he’s heard BJ around every corner – while leaving his letters unopened in a drawer – and woken to the sound of choppers when it was really only the silence that woke him, and he could swear that every drop of alcohol tastes like it was brewed through an army radiator.
He’s haunted by Korea.
Or maybe he’s the ghostly specter of his hometown and former haunt, his business unfinished, a stranger in his birthplace.
It might explain why he’s seeing things in a Hannaford parking lot on a Friday afternoon in October.
But why, of all people, Charles?
The question looms over his shoulder, and he hunches his shoulders against it, ignoring the chill down his spine as he makes his way towards the car.
He supposes, in some twisted way, that Charles would be the one most likely to be here – after all, it’s only a few hours from Boston – which means his delusions have lessened on the grandeur and become more realistic, which makes them all the scarier.
He shakes his head to clear his mind, like a Looney Toon shaking off stars after having an anvil dropped on his head, and sets the groceries on the front seat beside him.
He absentmindedly fumbles for the start button of the jeep for a second before he remembers he's not in an army jeep.
His hands are shaking as he sticks the key in the ignition, and it takes a few tries before the reliable old De Soto’s engine turns over, rumbling to life.
It’s begging for a check-up at the garage, but it should at least grumble its way home.
Hawkeye rolls the window down, hoping that the crisp air will snap him out of his funk.
But he would still swear, as he pulls out of the parking lot, that he sees Charles crossing the parking lot.
He’s almost tempted to investigate further – he would if not for the way people look at him, when he accidentally sees the faces of his friends in every crowd.
How many times now has he gone to tap someone on the shoulder, swearing it was Margaret, or seen Trapper walking down the street, only to take a second look and realize it’s someone else entirely?
How many mumbled apologies and strange looks must he endure?
He may be the one haunting Crabapple Cove with a vengeance, but it’s his friends who are haunting him.
The drive home is uneventful, Hawkeye squinting into the sun that shines against a cornflower blue sky, the crisp smell of burning leaves wafting into the car as he drives through town.
There are songs he doesn’t recognize on the radio and a new store is standing where the florist’s used to be, and Hawkeye with nowhere and no one to be, is a man out of time.
But he drums his fingers on the steering wheel, listening to the unfamiliar music, grateful when he finally pulls into the driveway.
Here, at least, nothing has changed.
It’s the same weathered Victorian house with the crooked weathervane and the sagging porch steps, battered by winter after winter, each creak of the step as familiar to him as a lover’s sigh.
It’s home.
Hawkeye picks up the sack of groceries and lugs it inside.
“Honey, I’m home!” he calls.
“I’m in the den!” Daniel calls back. “Did you get everything?”
“Everything but the cranberry sauce,” Hawkeye says, sticking his head around the doorway to the living room – what Daniel affectionately refers to as the den – only to see his father sitting at the chess board, lifting a pawn.
“Mm?”
“I said I got everything but the cranberry sauce.”
“Ah well… it’s not as if you actually eat it,” Daniel says, moving his pawn. “It just ends up being a centerpiece. Why don’t you join me?”
“Sure. Just let me put these away.”
“Right. See anyone you know in town?”
“You know,” Hawkeye says, talking loudly so Daniel can hear him from the kitchen. “It’s funny, but you’ll never guess who I thought I saw.”
“Who?”
“Charles! Not that he’d ever come here,” Hawkeye muses to himself. “He’d probably die if he had to cross out of Massachusetts again.”
“Ben, listen-”
But whatever Daniel is about to say is drowned out by the sound of the doorbell.
“You expecting a patient?”
“Ben,” Daniel says, looking a little embarrassed. “I’m the one who makes the house calls, not the other way around.”
Hawkeye walks over to the front door, and pulls it open.
And now he’s sure he’s seeing things – because Charles Emerson Winchester III is standing there.
On his front porch, in Crabapple Cove, Maine.
He sees Hawkeye, and looks a bit startled, before something close to a smile passes across his face. “Hello, Pierce.”
Hawkeye’s first instinct is to slam the door in his face, bracing himself against it like he’s holding back the tides.
“Ben?” Daniel says, walking into the front hall.
“Dad.” Hawkeye’s heart is jackhammering against his ribcage. “I think I’m going crazy.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m hallucinating.”
There’s a knock at the door then, softer, and Daniel laughs.
“Son, I don’t think hallucinations knock. Get the door, won’t you? It’s damn cold outside.”
Hawkeye grimaces, turning, and opening the door again.
Charles is still waiting on the other side, looking as immaculately clean and pressed as ever, and not the slightest bit offended at having the door slammed in his face, although there’s a gleam of amusement in his eyes.
“You’re… really here,” Hawkeye says.
Charles nods. “I am.”
Hawkeye stares at him, gripping the doorframe. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“I was invited,” Charles says politely, and Hawkeye can see the tension in his frame, the intimate changes of his body language startling familiar, rushing back to Hawkeye like the words to a forgotten song.
I know you, he thinks, looking at Charles. Will I ever stop?
“I didn’t – I mean-”
“I did,” Daniel says casually, and Hawkeye turns to stare at him, disbelieving. But Daniel ignores Hawkeye altogether, smiling at Charles. “Hello, Charles.”
“Hello, Dr. Pierce. It’s a pleasure to finally meet in person.”
“Or at least it will be if my son ever lets you in the door. Step aside, Ben, are you trying to heat the whole neighbourhood?”
“You never mentioned you were gonna rent out my room,” Hawkeye says, feeling off-kilter as he steps aside, letting Charles – who is carrying a small suitcase of what must be impeccable quality – into the house, closing the door behind him.
The click feels absurdly loud in the silence.
“I… I thought you knew,” Charles says apologetically, looking at Hawkeye. “I thought…”
“What are you doing here, Charles?”
“I invited him to spend Thanksgiving with us,” Daniel says casually, sticking his hands in his pockets. “If that’s alright with you?”
Hawkeye rubs his hand over the back of his neck. “Of course, but…”
“I’m going to go heat up some apple cider. You boys interested?”
“That would be wonderful.”
“Great. Ben’ll show you to the guest room.”
Daniel is whistling as he leaves, and Hawkeye watches Charles wince at the sound.
The two of them stand there in the hallway, for a few beats longer than is comfortable. Hawkeye can hear the clock chiming upstairs, and he finds himself looking Charles over, trying to find some sign of why he’s here.
There’s an expression on his face that Hawkeye can’t quite place.
“I… I did not intend to barge in on you and take you by surprise,” Charles says after a moment. “But your father called and invited me.”
“He’s always had a thing about taking in strays,” Hawkeye says a little flippantly and regrets it when Charles looks hurt. “Fuck, Charles, I’m… I’m sorry, I just…”
“No, I… I hadn’t realized you didn’t know. I’m sorry.”
“Nothing to be sorry for,” Hawkeye assures him, clapping him on the shoulder. “Now, why don’t you let the bellhop take your bag upstairs? You can settle in while we get your room ready.”
“I’d appreciate that, thank you, Pierce.”
Hawkeye takes his suitcase and carries it upstairs, his heart pounding as he does, his mind racing – a mile or two faster than its normal breakneck speeds.
He sets it down inside the guest room, surprised to see that the bed is already turned down, a pitcher of water sitting on the dresser.
Clearly Daniel knew Charles was coming – but why the hell didn’t he tell Hawkeye?
Hawkeye glances at the suitcase again, wondering if it contains some clue as to why Charles is here.
If it had been a year ago, Charles would’ve brought more than a single suitcase. He’d have at least two, plus his record player.
Hawkeye wonders suddenly what Charles’s family must think of this sudden defection, running his fingers over the embossed CEW III on the suitcase with a rush of affection.
Charles, for all he’s prickly and irascible, is something familiar, something he can hold on to even as Crabapple Cove slips through his grasp.
Hawkeye walks back downstairs slowly, pinching the back of his hand just in case. It stings, but when he gets to the bottom of the stairs, the floor creaks, and Charles turns from where he’s been examining the books on the shelf beside the fireplace.
“Those were my mother’s,” Hawkeye says, walking over, still not sure how to reconcile his two worlds – they’ve been orbiting each other since he got home and now have collided – and Charles looks up.
“Your father mentioned that your… celebration this weekend is in her honour.”
“Something like that, yeah.”
“Pierce, if I’m intruding-”
“No, Charles, God no. You’re welcome here – besides you’re my dad’s guest, not mine. I’m just surprised to see you here.”
Charles’s smile is thin, as he turns back to the bookshelf, and his voice is soft as he quotes, “I went into the woods because I wished to live deliberately.’”
“Is that why you’re here, Thoreau?”
He’s rewarded with a sigh. “Something like that, I suppose.”
“Cider’s ready!” Daniel calls.
“Are you here all weekend?”
“Yes,” Charles says, and finally offers Hawkeye a real smile. “If you don’t mind?”
“No,” Hawkeye says, and he’s surprised to find it’s the truth. “I’m glad you’re here.”
Hawkeye keeps glancing over at Charles, not quite expecting him to be there when he does, looming like a specter in his peripheral vision.
He can hear Daniel’s absentminded humming in the kitchen, watching the way Charles is white-knuckling the book he’s reading – or at least pretending to read – and he can’t take it another second.
The clock is ticking too loudly, Charles is sitting too still, and if Hawkeye spends one more minute in this little room, he’s going to start climbing the furniture.
“Let’s go.”
“Go where?” Charles asks, not looking up from his book.
“Out.”
“Out? On a Friday night in Maine? Pierce, I am not an idiot, whatever else you think of me.”
“Come on, it’s payday! I know just where to find the mad gay nightlife!”
“Pierce…”
“One drink. I’ll even buy it for you.”
“I’d expect nothing less of you as the host,” Charles remarks lightly, but he does stand up.
“Thanks, Charles.”
“For what?”
“Every time I start liking you too much, you remind me what a pompous jackass you are.”
Charles rolls his eyes, but simply says, “All part of the service, I imagine.”
“C’mon, Chuckles. Let’s bring the life to the party.”
Hawkeye claps him on the shoulder and heads for the door.
The bar is, as Hawkeye predicted, crowded and smoky, the scents of beer and brine and cigarette smoke as intoxicating as the alcohol.
He can barely hear the sound of the jukebox in the corner over the sound of the crowd, all of whom are boisterous and well on their way to drunk, spending their paychecks on liquor and good company.
Hawkeye can feel the prickle of awareness at the eyes on him, the salty old fishermen who look as though they belong on the front of their boats and not on them, the old school friends who avoid his gaze.
Charles may be new, but Hawkeye feels like the only true stranger in the bar.
Charles is sitting with his back to the door, his shoulders tensing at the sound of the jukebox, shivering each time the door swings open to let in the cold air.
“You know this place is actually called the Lobster Trap Tavern, but everyone just calls it the Trap,” Hawkeye points out.
“It is a trap.”
“How dare you, sir! This is at least a hovel.”
Charles allows a smile. “Still, I doubt I’ll be seeing it in a Michelin Guide anytime soon.”
“Well it’s no Rosie’s.”
“Certainly.”
“You never did explain what you were doing up here.”
“Your father invited me.”
“Yeah, but it’s a few years too late. I told him I wanted a brother when I was six. I don’t want one now.”
Hurt flickers across Charles’s face, and Hawkeye can’t place it.
“Look, I’m sorry.”
“Quite alright.”
They sit in silence for a second, both of them sipping their drinks – and it takes all of Hawkeye’s willpower not to gulp his down.
“Honoria called your father,” Charles says after a moment. “She seemed to think I was not adjusting as well as I’d like, and thought a weekend in the country might do my health some wonders.”
“So you came all the way here for a little time in the country?”
“Yes, well… autumn in New England.”
Hawkeye almost laughs at the way Charles says it, as though that explains everything.
But then again, after three years of living in a country where seasons that weren’t “excruciatingly hot” or “numbingly cold” sort of got lost in a wet, chilly blur, there is something almost refreshing, renewing about a true autumn.
“I’ll drink to that,” Hawkeye says, raising his glass in a toast.
Charles, after a moment of hesitation, clinks the rim of his cognac against Hawkeye’s martini.
After a bitter swallow, Hawkeye gets back to the subject at hand. “So my dad invited you, huh?”
“He did. It may have been a conspiracy with my sister, but your father has an uncanny knack as a diagnostician. He seemed to understand that what I needed was a change of scenery.”
“He’s a great doctor,” Hawkeye agrees fondly. “There’s a reason I wanted to grow up to be him – when I was a kid it seemed like he could fix anything.”
Charles nearly smiles at this, and Hawkeye would call him on it, but he knows the second he does, the mask of companionship will fall away. “A quality inherited by his son.”
“You must be drunk.”
“Why?”
“Because you don’t usually give me a compliment like that without a few snifters of cognac under your belt.”
“Pierce-”
“No, no, go on. I was enjoying that.”
“Why must you make everything, even something so simple as a compliment, such a trial?”
Hawkeye laughs, unable to help himself, and after a surprised look, Charles smiles too.
But then Charles, looking over the rim of his glass, says quietly, “He looks well.”
“Huh?”
“Your father. He seems… quite recovered from his ordeal.”
Hawkeye sets down his martini glass, stopped cold with surprise. “You remembered.”
“How could I forget?”
“I’d think you’d have more on your mind, with… everything. Besides, you didn’t know my father from Adam-"
“I knew of his importance to you. Isn’t that enough?”
“Is it?”
Charles raises an eyebrow. “Isn’t it?”
This gesture, simple as it is, is overwhelming, and Hawkeye can’t meet Charles’s gaze.
“You know, I wrote to him.”
Hawkeye blinks. “What?”
“Your father. I wrote him a letter wishing him a speedy recovery and continued good health… and telling him just how much you loved him.”
“Why?”
“Well…” Charles hesitates, but when he sees Hawkeye isn’t upset, he says softly, “Perhaps it wasn’t my place, but that ordeal was not just his to bear, but yours. You were… quite concerned at the time that he wouldn’t know. And I wanted to ensure that he did.”
“So you wrote my father a letter.”
“Yes.”
“Charles, are you ever going to stop surprising me?”
“Oh I do hope not.”
Hawkeye sighs and takes another gulp of his martini. “That makes me feel pretty rotten, you know.”
“Why?”
“Because if you hadn’t walked in on me making that phone call, I don’t think I would’ve told you about it. Or anyone.”
“Not… not even Hunnicutt?”
“Why worry him when there was nothing he could do?”
“Because it would mean you were not alone in your ordeal,” Charles says patiently. “If you were him, and it had been something wrong with Peg, wouldn’t you want to know?”
“Yes, but-”
“Pierce, I know that I am probably the last person in that camp you would consider a friend, but even I know that in the darkest of times we have to help each other through tragedy, just as we must uplift each other in joy.”
“They were getting a break from the tragedy, Charles. Remember? The bowling tournament?”
“Pierce – Hawkeye – tell me, are you always this dedicated to protecting everyone else? Even when it’s at your own expense?”
“I…”
Charles raises an eyebrow expectantly, and Hawkeye wants to say something, wants to stand up for himself, but he can’t find the words.
After a moment, he can only say, quietly, “You’re wrong.”
“About what?”
“I did… I do consider you a friend. And you’re far from the last person in camp I’d want as a friend.”
Charles smiles a little. “I see.”
Before Hawkeye can say anything else, he’s clapped hard on the shoulder.
“Hawkeye! Who’s your friend?”
He turns, already gritting his teeth. “Nobody. Just an old army buddy.”
“I’ve got a few of those,” his cousin says, baring his teeth with a vicious gleam in his eyes. “I don’t remember ever cozying up with them in a crowded bar. Why don’t you bring him over to say hello?”
“Excuse me,” Charles says calmly, and the instant he opens his mouth, Hawkeye winces. “We are in the middle of a private conversation. I don’t know where you learned your manners, my good man, but interrupting is generally seen as rude.”
“Who’s the fat cat?” he asks, eyeing Hawkeye.
“I told you, Billy,” Hawkeye says through gritted teeth. “He’s an old army friend from Korea. He’s visiting us for the weekend.”
“From where, Buckingham Palace?”
“From Boston, actually,” Charles says, his voice soft, and he smiles. “Dr. Charles Emerson Winchester the Third. And you are?”
“Charles, this is my cousin. Billy.”
“Billy,” Charles repeats, and Hawkeye sees the lightbulb go on over his head, and something in his expression changes, becomes cold. “Ah.”
For a second, he could be the blue-blooded pompous jackass that Hawkeye first met, and not the friend he’s come to know, as he sizes up Billy.
“Pierce, perhaps we should leave,” Charles says, his expression polite. “I do believe I’ve had enough of the local colour.”
“Are you sure?”
“Indeed. I’ve seen more culture under a microscope.” Charles stands up, offering an icy but polite nod to Billy, who seems unaware that he’s been insulted. “Shall we?”
“After you, Chuckles. Bye Billy.”
“So long.”
Hawkeye can barely hold in his laugh, and his eyes are watering from the cold by the time he lets it loose, halfway up Main Street, letting out a whoop, having to put his hands on his knees.
“I fail to see what is so funny,” Charles remarks politely, but he stops and waits for Hawkeye to finish laughing.
“More culture under a microscope?” Hawkeye says, laughing. “God, you’re crazy. And believe me, I’m an expert.”
“Pierce, you forget – I know what your cousin did to you.”
“He was being a jackass, sure, but we were kids,” Hawkeye says dismissively. “Besides, everybody loves Billy.”
“For God’s sake, why?”
“He’s a war hero, for one thing.”
“So are you.”
Hawkeye waves it off. “They don’t make wars like they used to, Charles, and they certainly don’t make war heroes anymore. And if they did, why would I be one?”
“You saved a lot of lives.”
“I fixed a lot of weapons. I figure if medicine doesn’t work, I could always go into business as a gunsmith.”
“Why does he treat you that way?”
“Because he was a jackass as a kid, and he’s a jackass now,” Hawkeye says with a shrug, ducking as the bitterly cold wind picks up around them. “I just learned not to take it personally.”
“But the way he spoke to you-”
“He acts like war is a fraternity,” Hawkeye points out. “And if he couldn’t stand me as a cousin, why should he love me now that I’m part of his fucked-up brotherhood?”
Charles snorts, but doesn’t say anything else.
“Besides, if war makes strange bedfellows, I’d rather that fellow be you than him.”
“Probably for the best. Brahmins are inbred already, and some new blood would certainly benefit us.”
Hawkeye laughs a little, some of the anxiety easing its grip around his lungs. “You’re not going to take a shot at Mainers being inbred?”
“I am not a man to throw stones when my tower is built from glass. Besides which, I’d hate to malign your family’s character when he is hardly representative of it.”
“Charles, was that another compliment?”
“No.”
“I think it was.”
He sees Charles roll his eyes as they pass under a streetlight. “Pierce, someone really ought to take a pin to your ego.”
“Insult me all you want, Charles, you can’t pretend you don’t like me.”
Charles huffs out a laugh. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”
But Hawkeye can hear the smile in his voice, and it makes him smile too.
Hawkeye can feel the tightening of his chest as he runs out of air, the water closing over his head, even as he struggles to the surface, he doesn’t even know which way is up anymore and somewhere there’s a baby wailing-
“Hawkeye!”
Hawkeye’s eyes fly open, his breathing ragged, struggling to draw in a breath.
And Charles is there, his hands on Hawkeye’s shoulders.
“Pierce?”
“Can’t…” Hawkeye gasps out, his face wet, “Can’t breathe.”
“Hawkeye, it’s alright, you’re safe.”
Hawkeye can see black spots start to pop at the corners of his vision, and he can’t breathe, he can’t breathe.
“Hawkeye, listen to me – focus on me.”
Hawkeye’s eyes land on Charles’s face, meeting his eyes which are the clear blue of the ocean on a summer day.
“Breathe with me, alright? You have to breathe.”
Hawkeye shakes his head weakly, his lungs screaming for oxygen, but he can’t, he can’t-
“Inhale, come on. Breathe, dammit!”
Hawkeye inhales, breathing with Charles, his eyes fixed on Charles’s face as his heartbeat jackhammers against his ribs.
“And breathe out, that’s good.”
Hawkeye chokes out a breath.
“Charles-”
“C’mon, again, you can do it,” Charles urges, his bedside manner as gentle as his hands on Hawkeye’s shoulders, his grip relaxing. “There’s a good man.”
Hawkeye breathes in and out again, and his vision starts to clear.
“It’s going to be alright,” Charles assures him, his accent surprisingly soothing, and Hawkeye wants to sink into it like a warm bath, his muscles tense from trying to flee the darkness in his head. “You’re safe. It was just a nightmare.”
“Charles,” Hawkeye says weakly. “I’m sorry.”
Charles waves off the apology. “Are you alright?”
“Did I wake you?”
“I asked first.”
“I couldn’t… I couldn’t breathe.”
“I know.”
Charles sits down beside him on the bed, and Hawkeye can’t stop shaking.
“Just keep breathing for me,” Charles says, placing a comforting hand on Hawkeye’s back. “It’s alright now.”
Hawkeye takes another shaky breath, rubbing his hand over his face, wishing he could calm down, feeling the wetness of tears on his face.
“I’m sorry,” he says again.
“I don’t want you to be sorry.”
“I woke you up.”
“I wasn’t sleeping,” Charles assures him. “And needing someone is never something you need apologize for. Has that… happened before?”
“Once or twice,” Hawkeye says quietly, looking down at his hands, knotted in the quilt. “I can usually get through them on my own. But that…”
“It was a nightmare.”
Hawkeye can hear the unspoken part in Charles’s voice, the I get them too that he doesn’t say.
When he looks up and meets Charles’s gaze, he asks quietly, “Do you think we’ll ever really come home?”
He’s expecting Charles to lie to him, but instead he looks sad. “Parts of us did. Others, I suspect, will never quite come back. At least not in the same way.”
“Right.”
“Will you be alright?”
“Do you dream?” Hawkeye blurts out.
Charles nods, and then gives Hawkeye a searching look. “Every night.”
“And has anything like this ever happened to you?”
“Once. I nearly suffocated, and very likely would have, had Honoria not been wandering the halls as she normally does at that hour.”
“She’s an insomniac?”
“The world is more interesting to her when she is the only one in it,” Charles says, and he sounds almost amused. “She brought me out of it best she could, but we were both shaken.”
“Is that why you’re here?”
“I don’t know,” Charles says, but then he pats Hawkeye on the shoulder. “But I’m glad to be here.”
“I’m glad too, Charles.”
“Do you think you’ll be alright?”
“Yeah,” Hawkeye says, sounding braver than he feels. “I’ll be fine.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah.”
“Very well. I shall be down the hall if you need me.”
Hawkeye nods, and he waits until Charles is at the door, before he calls out, “Charles?”
“Yes?”
“Thank you.”
Charles smiles, but simply says, “Goodnight… Hawkeye.”
And then before Hawkeye can say anything else, he’s gone.