Title: Dear Trapper
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Gen
Disclaimer: Own nothing, not being paid
Spoilers: up to part way through season 6
Written for: Missfuneralsong for Yuletide 2008
Authors Notes: Thank you to Cha Oseye Tempest Thrain, goodisrelative and krazykitkat for the beta. Thanks to starrylizard for the look through. And thank you to my recipient for asking for MASH. I got to watch almost three seasons of my dvds while writing this.

Summary: Hawkeye gets a long-awaited letter from home.

"Just throw it already!"

BJ relaxed against his pillow and sipped his martini as Hawkeye held the dart near his eye, gently moving it back and forth. They were both tired and worn out, par for the course in the craziness that was daily life in the 4077th. Darts played from their cots, handicapped to take into account the fact that Hawkeye was closer but at an angle, was all they really felt capable of doing. Plus, it'd been a whole day since they'd been bored enough to play. At the rate they were going, the war would be over and the next one started by the time they finished the game, since both of them were too exhausted to retrieve the darts after their turn.

"Don't rush me," Hawkeye said, dropping his hand down to his lap and taking a gulp of the martini in his other hand. "Perfection takes time." He gave a rakish grin and brought the dart back up level with his eye.

"Must you subject me to this inane chatter?" Charles asked, in a long-suffering voice, his arm thrown over his face as he lay on his bunk. "Pleeease, I beg of you, shut up!"

"Must you listen to our inane chatter?" Hawkeye replied as he threw the dart. Nineteen, almost a triple score.

"Not tonight dear, he has a headache." BJ nodded knowingly and crossed one leg over the other, his dressing-gown riding up further.

"Oh, well, in that case." Hawkeye rolled his eyes. He straightened up, his bearing suddenly imperious. "Today," Hawkeye announced in a grandiose voice, using the next dart as a microphone, "two doctors were forbidden to speak on the grounds that their conversation was 'inane drivel'." He aimed the dart in BJ's direction. "Now we speak with our correspondent in Korea, Doctor BJ Hunnicut. What do you think of this stunning development, Doctor?"

BJ angled his head. "It's a shock... I thought we were talking about important drivel."

The dart was placed back under Hawkeye's lips. "And there you have it folks, straight from the driveller himself. In local news, a cat gave birth to a lamb. The mother is confused and the baby is looking a little sheepish." A few practice throws and the dart was off, landing beside its mate. "Your turn."

"It was my turn yesterday."

A shape appeared outside the tent, followed by a knock at the door. "Ah, sirs?"

"Come in, Radar," BJ invited.

"Didn't want to get skewered," Radar said with a grin and a little shrug as he opened the door, mail bag hanging from his shoulder and letters in hand. "Mail call."

"Bless you, Radar, you bastion of civilisation, you sentinel of bureaucratic efficiency," Hawkeye declared.

Radar gave a short laugh. "I just deliver what they send. Ah, you got a letter, Hawkeye."

"A letter? For me?" Hawkeye clutched his hands together, an expression of pure glee on his face as he fluttered his eyelashes. "Oh, goodie." He clapped his hands.

"It's from Trapper."

"Trapper?" Hawkeye exchanged glances with BJ. "Give-" He reached out and tried to snatch the letter from Radar's hand, only to have Radar reflexively pull it back. "Give it here." Hawkeye ripped it away and glared at Radar. "What's a person got to do to get their mail around here?"

"Gee, bastion of civilisation, huh?" Radar said, affronted.

"Don't mind him, Radar. He's just annoyed he's the only one sleeping in his bed. Anything for me?"

"Two, from Mrs Hunnicut."

Radar handed the letters over, eyeing Hawkeye like he was going to bite. He hadn't even opened the letter, so Radar didn't know why he had to snatch it away. "Aren't you going to open..." He paused, and angled his head, a bat listening for its prey. "Choppers."

Radar rushed to the door, mail route abandoned, and ran out, shouting, "Choppers." A moment later they heard the unmistakable drone of the rotors.

"Wonderful, just wonderful," Charles said. He sat up and ran a hand over his face, before trying to smooth down the hair on the side of his head. "A perfect end to a wonderful day in this hell hole."

"Guess you're going to have to open it later, Hawk," BJ said, noting that Hawkeye was still looking at the letter he held in his hands like it was a live grenade.

"Yeah."

Hawkeye's one word answer as BJ tied his shoelaces was enough to tell him that something was very wrong.

"Wounded in the compound. All medical shifts report."

Hawkeye placed the letter on the table beside his bed as they headed out.

"I could sleep for a month." BJ yawned and dodged the cot that had suddenly jumped into his path. Even your bedding was out to kill you in Korea. He told himself that wavy had always been straight as he crashed face first a foot from his bunk. His legs could stay on the floor; it was his brain that needed to sleep. And his hands.

"I think Charles alr-r-r," Hawkeye didn't even bother covering his mouth as the yawn escaped and tried to swallow everything around him, "-ready is."

"Can't hear you. Asleep," BJ said into the blanket. Pillows, who needed pillows? Pillows were for the weak.

Hawkeye looked over. "Come on, BJ, you can't sleep like that. You either need to sle-e-e-e-p," he shook his head, trying to jar his brain cells awake as the yawn turned into a stutter, "on the floor or on the bunk. There's no in between."

The mumble he got in return sounded something like 'five more minutes'.

Taking pity on him, Hawkeye made his way over to the other bunk, wavering as he walked. "I'm terribly sorry," he said as he ran into the side of the stove and grabbed the pipe to keep his balance. He patted it gently in apology. "Shall we dance?" The half bow he did reminded him why he'd run into the stove in the first place. "Woah. Not tonight, my dear; frankly, I do give a damn." A few more steps and he'd reached BJ's feet. He bent down, placing a hand on the floor to keep his balance, and picked up a foot. "A red pump in a size 12, madam?"

The other foot wasn't going to fit in his hand. Hawkeye was amazed that he didn't fall when he lifted the hand he'd used to support himself off the floor and grabbed the second foot. However, he did stagger. A push to the left and up and BJ was almost fully on the bed.

"Help me out here a little, Beej," Hawkeye huffed.

There was an unintelligible grunt and BJ dragged his upper body the extra few inches needed and collapsed again.

A pat on the shoulder good night and Hawkeye started the long walk back to his cot. He didn't remember the distance being that long when he'd made the initial journey.

"Ahhhhh," he moaned as he landed on his own island of bliss. He closed his eyes and waited for the peaceful oblivion of hard-earned sleep. The oasis of respite from the insanity that was the army and his life.

Ahh, sleep.

Sleep. He rolled over and pulled his pillow up tight under his head. He could sleep for a year... through a marching band or, as more likely, artillery, if necessary. Anybody trying to wake him up was going to get shaving cream in their shoes, if they managed to return him to the land of the living.

Sleep. Heavenly nirvana on a bed; well, the other heavenly nirvana on a bed, the one best practised alone.

And he was wide awake.

"Oh for..."

Hawkeye sat up and rubbed his hand over his face, sighing deeply in frustrated annoyance. Insomnia when you were already exhausted just wasn't fair. What did a fella have to do to get a decent night's sleep after fourteen hours of surgery?

Maybe a drink would help. He picked up a martini glass and eyed it from the side. There was a fly doing the backward crawl in the dregs of his last drink. One last valiant stroke and it stopped moving.

"I'm not giving you mouth to mouth," he told the fly. "You got yourself into this mess, get yourself out." The fly still didn't move. "Stop looking at me like that. It's your own fault." He sighed and got up, martini glass in hand, and opened the door. "Farewell, friend. Sadly, I did not know you well." The glass was raised in a toast and then he tossed the contents outside. Letting the door slam shut, Hawkeye poured another martini into the glass and took a gulp. "Ahhh, sweet nectar of the gods." He leaned back on the cot and looked around for something to do. Something that didn't require much thought or energy. His eyes alighted on the letter lying on the table next to him. Plain white envelope, hand written name and address. Not too thick, so couldn't be a long letter.

It felt like it had been forever since Trapper had left. He'd gone home without a word, not even leaving a note, just giving Radar a peck on the cheek to pass on to him. And then nothing: no letter, no phone calls. Nothing. He'd thought they were closer than that, thought that he'd deserved more than nothing. And now, now there was a letter. After so much time, after he'd moved on, had stopped thinking about Trapper and Henry so much, now he had a letter. Ah, irony, thy name is the 4077th.

Another sip and he felt fortified enough for the job at hand. Okay, not quite fortified enough. He drained his glass, put it down, and picked up the letter. Smelt it, no noticeable perfume of any kind. He slid his finger under the flap and pulled it open. A plain white folded sheet of paper. He gently pulled it out and unfolded it.

Dear Hawkeye,

"I can tell this is going to be riveting," Hawkeye announced to the sleeping tent.

I'm sorry.

At that, Hawkeye had to look away from the letter. He was sorry. Well, that made everything okay, then. He eyed the martini glass, but resisted pouring another belt.

I meant to write to you as soon as I got back. But that's not how things worked out, and I'm sorry. Really sorry, Hawk.

I expected that I'd get back and things would be great. Back with my wife and family, back in good old America. No more fleas, no more surgery for fourteen hours straight, no more putting kids back together while trying not to freeze to death, no more lumpy cots or drinking ourselves to sleep in them.

Boy, was I wrong. Not that there are fleas, or any of those things, but things haven't been great. One thing that you don't realize will happen is that people will want to know what it's like. I mean really want to know what it's like. If you say you don't want to talk about it, they just ask again later, thinking that the answer will have changed.

Hawkeye stopped reading and looked for a long moment into the distance.

Then there's the other stuff. Sometimes I wake up thinking that I'm back in The Swamp in my cot, you and Frank lying a few feet away, instead of being beside my wife in my bed. Sometimes it seems like this is a dream, and sometimes it seems like the war was a dream. I don't know which is worse.

I miss you guys, but then I also don't, because you remind me of all the hell we went through, and I don't want to remember that.

So, I'm sorry. I'm sorry that I didn't write sooner. Well, you know.

I hope you're okay.

Trapper

"Yeah," Hawkeye murmured. "I do, you know."

He rubbed his hand over his face and sighed, placed the letter back in the envelope and then on the table. Leaning over the side of his cot, he rummaged through the junk on the floor until he located his pad of paper and pen. He straightened back up and started writing.

Dear Trapper,

A funny thing happened on the way to the war today...