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Words bubble up desperately from somewhere in my chest before falling away
and only managing something like a hiccup,
petering out into nothingness.
If I can’t see it, it’s not there. indeed, inside our little canvas Shangri la, there’s little to see other than thick, amorphous shadow.
but I can hear.
when the sounds of the war get too bad, I sit and peer towards frank’s corner of the tent, distinguishable by its repulsive orderliness. it is, mercifully, unoccupied. he must be giving Margaret an after-hours house call. another physical?
covertly, I make my way towards trapper’s bunk and pause, give a short tug on his blanket.
rolling towards the wall, he garbles a few things and pulls the pillow over his head.
“I love you, too,” I whisper hoarsely, trying too hard to be flippant.
“hawk,” trap groans, “I refuse to wake up.”
“so don’t. just make room for me.”
“oh, no. you kick in your sleep.”
“you nearly rolled on top of me. I couldn’t breathe.”
“yeah, yeah, yeah. alright, you want a second chance?”
“I’ll grovel.”
“spare me. you’re disgusting when you grovel. here, I’m moving over, see?”
“I could kiss you – “
“please, don’t. and you’re rocking the cot.”
“Whoops. better?”
“sure. ’night.”
after some shuffling and re-arranging we manage to arrange ourselves comfortably, though I wouldn’t recommend you try this at home. leave that to professionals. army cots, you see, are not quite so spacious. surprise, I know. despite the apparent luxury of the Swamp motel with its 24/7 bar, and floor piled with old socks and germs thick as a Berber rug, the accommodations are really sub par. although they are preferable to foxholes.
I wait until trapper’s breathing eases off into a steady rhythm, then roll off my back and onto my side. there’s a particularly loud blast, and it catches me unawares; next to me, trapper’s slumber continues, uninterrupted. we’ve all been working double, triple, quintuple shifts since they kicked the fighting up a notch.
the difference is, I can’t close my eyes without having nightmares. I have them with my eyes open, too, only those are real.
shaking slightly, I pillow my head on one arm and sling the other over trapper’s side. we’re curled together under the blanket, and it’s some comfort  sleeping with someone who can’t hear the shelling; it helps me pretend I can’t, either.
if it gets too loud, thundering as though the sky is splitting like an arctic ice sheet, about to come crashing down in a million pieces, I can always press my hands against my ears and close my eyes tightly shut, shapeless color flickering in and out of focus, stars dancing behind my eyelids.
impossible as it seems, time passes.
it has to.
I wait, an indifferent, disinterested passersby watching the hours wind their way through, one foot in front of the other, second by second advancing, or crawling away - whichever.
the warmth trapped under the blanket is addicting,
and I edge closer, too weary to feel surprise at how perfectly we mesh, spooned around each other, limbs tangled in disarray.
so it comes to pass that the night,
with its heavy, claustrophobic darkness and sickening soundtrack of firing guns, eventually
erm, hawkeye/trapper drabble, very general.
i thought it was sweet.
twenty minutes total. i'm getting better at this ^_^

i suppose i should put up a disclaimer - everything belongs to 20th century fox, except the korean war (wonder who owns that?). i'm just having fun with their characters.
Ochobu Featured By Owner Apr 6, 2015  Student General Artist
Whoa! This is really beautiful. Well-written!
SirVevvan Featured By Owner May 10, 2013  Hobbyist General Artist
My god, I don't even ship it and this warms my heart! I love the words you use and how you put the sentences together. It's the best written Hawkeye's-perspective I've ever read.
TechnoShadowBlood Featured By Owner Apr 8, 2010  Hobbyist Digital Artist
I love it. Thats why I faved it, its so cute X3
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Submitted on
June 23, 2008
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