Work Text:
The house seemed to hum with electricity and warmth as Hawkeye and Mulcahy stood side-by-side in an old kitchen. This was Hawkeye’s house in Maine; small, cabin-like in style, but perfectly cozy, with all the modern amenities. The aroma of cookies in the oven mixed with the fresh pine smell of the Christmas tree in the living room and the sound of Christmas songs floating across the air from the radio.
The two worked in a fashion not unlike an assembly line: Mulcahy rolled out the dough, while Hawkeye cut shapes out of it. He had an arsenal of various cookie cutters at his disposal, collected through years of gift exchanges and estate sales.
Hawkeye picked out a star cookie cutter and began pressing shapes into a sheet of dough. His eyes wandered to Mulcahy, who was wearing a bright red-and-green Christmas sweater (Hawkeye’s sweater, a size or two too big) and a black apron, cinched tight around his waist. He rested a hungry gaze on Mulcahy’s waist for a moment. Who knew someone could look so good in an apron? Hawkeye himself was in a pair of striped pajama pants and a burgundy robe – a new one Mulcahy had gotten for him (he didn’t think he could ever wash the dirt and blood out of the old one).
Mulcahy realized Hawkeye was staring at him, and turned to meet his gaze with an innocent expression of surprise. Hawkeye quickly fixed his face and smiled sweetly at him.
“What?” Mulcahy asked.
“It’s nothing.” Hawkeye turned back to cut out more cookies. “I was just thinking about how lucky I am to be spending time with you.”
“Oh, Hawkeye,” Mulcahy smiled, “Thank you.”
The song on the radio faded out, and another song began. After a few moments, both of them recognized it to be Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas.
“Care for a duet?” Hawkeye asked, before beginning to loudly sing along to the radio.
Mulcahy joined in, making up a harmony to go along. He spent enough years of his life as a choir boy that he could improvise harmonies; it was helpful for the various moments where Hawkeye would unexpectedly break into song.
When they got to the second verse, a mischievous smile crept onto Hawkeye’s face. “Have yourself a merry little Christmas, make the yuletide gay.” Hawkeye hip-checked Mulcahy and smiled. “That’s us, you know,” he whispered dramatically before continuing.
Mulcahy smiled a little uncomfortably. He hadn’t quite embraced the label of gay yet; there was a lot he had to unpack before he would be able to call himself gay in any context other than a confession. But he took a deep breath in between two lines of the song and smiled; he was next to Hawkeye, baking delicious cookies, singing together. If he was gay, so be it, because he was at the very least happy.
A couple verses in, Hawkeye didn’t know the lyrics anymore, so he switched to humming. Mulcahy whistled along, clear and bright. As Hawkeye placed the last cookie on the tray, he went to put it in the oven. The tray clattered noisily as he slipped it in, shoving the oven door closed with minimal gentleness.
Instead of returning to his cookie-cutting station after putting the cookies in the oven, he went to stand behind Mulcahy, wrapping his hands around his waist and resting his chin on the top of Mulcahy’s head.
Mulcahy tilted his head up and looked up at him with mock indignation. “You can’t abandon your post now! We’re only halfway through.”
Hawkeye smiled widely, eyes crinkling at the corners. He gave Mulcahy a gentle peck on the forehead. He gently tugged clockwise on Mulcahy’s torso, prompting him to turn around to face Hawkeye. The two made eye contact for a brief moment before Hawkeye stretched upwards to kiss Hawkeye on the lips. They stood there for a moment before the song faded out and the two returned to their places, making cookies.
“That’s all I needed,” Hawkeye said. “‘I’ve been rejuvenated. My kiss stores have been recharged.”
The two fell silent as the radio crackled to life and a man’s voice materialized out of the static, announcing the next song. “And now, we are pleased to share with you a song from the new movie White Christmas. Hope you enjoy.”
Both perked up at the mention. “You know, I’ve been telling you we need to watch that.”
The tune started off brassy and march-like before a bright and clear voice rang out, "Gee, I wish I was back in the army!”
The metal cookie cutter Hawkeye was holding – an angel – clattered to the ground. Mulcahy went to look at him and saw an expression of shock and horror. Hawkeye stared at the radio.
“What in the world is this?” he choked out.
“Hawkeye, it’s from a movie. I’m sure it’s not serious.” Mulcahy’s eyebrows furrowed. “Listen to the lyrics.”
A million handsome guys with longing in their eyes
And all you had to do was pick the age, the weight, the size
Hawkeye’s face contorted into a grimace. Images flashed through his mind of patients he’d cared for; they really did come in every age and weight and size. The only throughline when it came to his patients was that they were dying, and their lives were in Hawkeye’s hands. And Hawkeye couldn’t save them all.
He remembered bodies being carried out of OR and post-op, put onto a truck and carried away. They were children. They were children. They were children.
“It’s just a joke, Hawkeye.” Mulcahy put his hand on Hawkeye’s shoulder.
Gee, I wish I was back in the army! The voices rang out again.
Hawkeye tore his shoulder away from Mulcahy’s hand. “That’s NOT SOMETHING YOU JOKE ABOUT!! Ever!” He took in a ragged breath. “Anyone who wishes they were back in the army doesn’t remember half of how bad it was.”
Mulcahy stepped back in fear and set his rolling pin on the table. Hawkeye, fuming, walked over to the other side of the room and yanked the radio out of the wall outlet. The voice on the radio distorted and quieted and faded away. He picked it up – it was nice, a gift from a patient – and held it under his arm.
Hawkeye opened the back door to his house. A blast of frigid air hit him in the face, shocking his nerves. He stepped out onto the snow-covered back porch, barefoot, and chucked the radio as hard as he possibly could across the backyard. It landed among the perfect blanket of snow with a soft thud. He shut the back door and took a deep breath before leaning against a nearby wall.
“Hawkeye? Are you all right? I can put on a record instead if you’d like; I think I have a Christmas record.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Hawkeye moved towards the counter, covered in flour and scraps of cookie dough. “Could I borrow that rolling pin?” Mulcahy picked it up and held it towards him cautiously.
“Thank you, darling,” Hawkeye smiled and took it from him before swiftly turning away, out the back door again, and shut it behind him, walking down the porch stairs.
Hawkeye’s breath continued to quicken as the snow began to numb the soles of his feet. He beelined straight for the radio sitting gently in the center of his lawn. Snow was softly drifting from the sky, already starting to blanket the radio, as if to convince the world as if it was never there at all -- as if it had never played that horrible song.
He tossed the rolling pin in his hand before tightening his grip on it. He coiled his arm backwards and slammed it down on the radio.
A loud crack echoed through the otherwise quiet winter air. His rolling pin took most of the force; the radio was built sturdy. Still, he lifted up his arm again and slammed it down on the radio over and over and over again..
He could still hear the singing: gee, I wish I was back in the army. The line repeated on a loop, voices overlapping dissonantly with each other, getting louder and more intense. He couldn’t take it anymore; he hit the radio with so much force that the rolling pin cracked in half. The top half of the rolling pin flew across the lawn. Hawkeye didn't turn to look at it; he kept his gaze fixed on the radio.
The radio still wasn’t broken, but there was a crack in the top panel. He ripped it apart with his hands, diving into the meaty robotic innards. He ripped out wires, shattered glass tubes, bent pieces of metal. Glass embedded itself into his hands. Metal sliced into his palms. Drops of blood spilled onto the pristine whiteness of the snow.
The song continued playing in his head, the loud horn accompaniment got louder. He couldn’t hear anything but this song and his ragged breathing and his pounding heart rate. He didn’t hear it when Mulcahy came clamoring towards him. He was so focused on destroying this radio. Destroying this cruel nostalgia for the worst years of his life.
Mulcahy placed his hand on Hawkeye’s shoulder. Hawkeye stopped in his tracks. His eyes were zoned out, staring off into the distance. Mulcahy grabbed Hawkeye by the armpit and lifted him up. Hawkeye didn't fight it. He stood. He didn’t make eye contact with Mulcahy. His eyes were focused on the drifting snow, on the horizon in the distance. Were there choppers? He stared, convinced that every bird rustling through the trees carried new wounded.
Mulcahy took Hawkeye in his arms. He held him firmly, as if trying to force the thoughts and memories from his body. He let out a gentle shhhhhhh, in the same way one would calm a horse or a fussy child.
Hawkeye suddenly took a deep breath in and let out a sob. His eyes weren’t wet as much as his chest was trembling, jolting, heaving. He yelled incomprehensible nonsense and groaned under the weight of the world.
“I’m here, Hawkeye. You’re safe. We’re safe.”
They stood like this for a long while, until he was too tired to continue crying. Hawkeye was the one to eventually let go of the embrace. He took a good look at his hands. They were covered in blood. Puddles of melted snow mixed with blood had formed around Mulcahy’s feet.
“Good heavens, your hands.” Mulcahy grabbed Hawkeye’s hands in his, inspecting the damage. “Let’s get this fixed up.” Mulcahy thought to himself that it was such good news that Hawkeye was off of work for the holidays; with these wounds, he wouldn’t be able to do surgery for a good while.
Hawkeye didn’t say anything, only nodded. Mulcahy linked arms with Hawkeye and slowly began to walk with him towards the back door of their house. Towards the warm smell of sugar and pine and Mulcahy’s cologne. Towards home. Towards home.
“The cookies should be just about ready to be eaten by now. I’ll pour us some eggnog.”