Chapter Text
“Potter, think about this, please—!”
“Sir, the man is, politely, a jacka—!”
Cornered in his office, Potter holds a hand up to both of his best surgeons, having endured this plea countless times from various sources.
While Potter is in complete agreement with the nurses, Radar, the kitchen staff, Klinger, the delivery guys, Hawkeye and BJ, it is what it is. And they will live for six days, already having proved they’ve weathered much worse than having Frank as their commanding officer.
…Maybe…
Upon his departure, Potter is just as grim as the rest of the unit. It doesn’t feel…fortuitous. But six days of R&R in Tokyo? Away from relentless snitching from Frank, to not have to act as referee in the OR when Frank took jocular comments too seriously, an opportunity to eat real food and sleep in a real bed—He smacks the Jeep, letting the driver know he’s good to go.
Dead men standing, the two surgeons watch their colonel rumble away in a cloud of dust.
“How long until the Füher executes his will?” BJ asks, crossing his arms and psychically ordering Potter's Jeep to malfunction before passing the gate.
Hawkeye sighs, pocketing his hands to keep him from punching the next person to walk past, “Executes his will or us?”
They look at each other silently for a beat until BJ asks the pertinent question, “What’s the difference?”
And no, there isn’t a difference.
But what makes Hawkeye angry is how the unit is being treated like some kind of sadistic plaything, as if his staff isn’t overworked.
The wake-up time has been pushed back so early that it’s still dark. Callisthenics do nothing to help everyone’s groggy drowsiness and a change of menu that is even worse than before. No gambling, no fraternising with the opposite sex, no hot showers, no drinking, no smoking, no recreational activities of any kind—and Sunday service is mandatory regardless of personal beliefs.
Hawkeye is pretty sure the last one is illegal and confident their resident chaplain would agree—if only for Mulcahy’s penchant for getting incredibly anxious in front of large crowds.
Mulcahy manages to smile through it all, somehow. Even if it seems a bit strained and psychotic at times, as if he’s one teetering breath away from hysterical laughter or soul-bruising sobs—that could just be Hawkeye projecting since that’s how he feels after only one day of this nonsense.
Hawkeye finds the chaplain leaning against a door outside the OR to catch his breath or take a five-second nap. “Have you eaten yet?”
Mulcahy debates avoiding the whole truth or explaining the new early morning, which leaves him with too much of an unsettled stomach to ingest anything. He shakes his head in a sleepy response.
His mouth falls at Hawkeye’s grip around his wrist, levelling something heavy and round in his palm.
“Bae,” Hawkeye names the greenish-yellow fruit, “it’s a Korean pear—take it outside, bask in the sunlight, give it a pep talk about being the juiciest pear in the orchard. No pressure."
Mulcahy stares at the fruit like it’s alien to him, and in some way, it is. “I’ll be fine, Hawkey—“
“Where did any of this sound like an option—Go outside.” He grabs the Chaplain by the shoulders. “Sit on the bench.” Spins him around. “Eat the pear.” And pushes him out the doors with finality. “Now.”
The one thing about being overworked and under-rested is that Mulcahy is too docile to refuse. When he finds himself outside, he doesn’t bother arguing further.
But he tenderly cups the fruit in his hands for a moment, feeling a new warmth bleed in his chest, smiling at Hawkeye’s care and concern before taking a crisp bite.
And yes, it’s delicious.