![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Entry tags:
Candy Hearts: In Good Company (MASH fic)
Candy Hearts author reveals were today! I wrote MASH friendship fluff/light h/c. It's not too long, so I figured I'll cross-post it here as well.
This was also kind of loosely inspired by a prompt from the 3 Sentence Ficathon, any, any, I saved this for you, because I was browsing the prompt lists around the same time looking for something that would jump out and suggest a fic to me, and my brain latched onto that one as something my recipient might like.
In Good Company (MASH, 1075 wds, team gen, late seasons)
Hawkeye gets to the mess late because of delays in post-op, but his friends are looking out for him.
Also posted on AO3. AO3 tags: "Food As A Metaphor For Love"
It had been a long, miserable day and night in the OR, and Hawkeye didn't manage to finally drag himself off duty until hours after everyone else had gone to crash, shower, or eat. He'd spent a while in post-op afterwards, sitting with a patient whose condition took a while to stabilize, and one of the nurses needed his help with an agitated patient after that.
It was considerably after sunup when he finally slogged out of post-op, still wearing stained scrubs he was too tired to change out of. His hands cramped, his head hurt, and the sun was too high and too bright. Squinting up at it, trying to remember the last time he'd slept, he weighed the relative merits of trying to find something edible in the breakfast chow line versus crashing at the Swamp. There had been rumors of fresh sweet rolls that morning, brought in on last night's supply truck from Seoul, but by now they'd be long gone; there would be nothing left but cold, runny powdered eggs and the worst and most shriveled of the breakfast sausage. He was too tired to be hungry anyway.
Still, he knew from experience that not eating was worse -- probably.
And there was, not inconsequentially, the knowledge that his bunkmates would either be asleep or in the mess, and right now he knew that as tired as he was, he wouldn't be able to get his brain to spin down enough to sleep immediately. He had the option of drinking himself into a stupor in the Swamp, or finding someone to talk to in the mess, so he turned his dragging steps that way.
The chow line was sparse, a few complaining guys from Supply and a couple of nurses just changing shifts. Hawkeye slouched along, picked up a tin tray and received a sloppy mess of eggs that looked even worse than expected, a piece of toast that had apparently been toasted into paving material, and the last cold dregs of the coffee.
But his bunkmates were at a table along the wall, along with Margaret, all of them looking as exhausted as he felt -- though Charles had found the time to shave, apparently -- and they waved him over, so he wobbled to the end of the bench beside Margaret and slumped down across from BJ and Charles.
"You look like Dorian Grey's portrait, Pierce," Charles said.
"Thanks. You should have seen the other guy." Hawkeye stuck his fork in his eggs and found that it stood up on its own, while Margaret wilted sleepily on his shoulder. "Look at that, the kitchen discovered a new element. Maybe it can stand in for concrete the next time we fix the potholes in the road."
"They can serve the concrete in the mess," BJ said.
Hawkeye gestured at him with his fork once he reclaimed it from the eggs. "See, it's a win all around."
Margaret yawned, nudged Hawkeye's shoulder with her chin, and straightened up again. "How's Peckham?" The patient who'd coded twice on the table.
"Awake and talking," Hawkeye said. He smiled without even having to work on it; run down as he was, there were still things to smile about, now and then. "Lieutenant Baker is doing extra checks on him when she does rounds. I told her to wake me up if his BP starts to crash."
"You did good work on that kid, Hawk," BJ told him.
"Yes, a fine job," Charles put in, and added, "Very nearly up to my standards, and I don't say that lightly."
"That's it, Charles," BJ said. "Keep taking those learn-by-mail courses and you'll master the art of the compliment in about another decade."
Charles gave him a halfhearted glare that he was too tired to really pull off.
Margaret yawned again. She'd had her hand over her coffee cup; now she set the mug on the edge of Hawkeye's tray and got up. "I didn't want my breakfast sausage," she told him. "It's the first off the line -- almost edible. Probably cold now, but if you don't want it, the camp dogs will enjoy it. Night, or I guess, morning, boys."
She wandered off sleepily with her tray. Hawkeye looked in -- it wasn't a joke, it was an empty coffee mug with sausage in it. He cautiously nudged a sausage with his fork, then touched it with the back of his fingers. It was cold, but they all knew the early batch were usually the ones that hadn't been cooked into oblivion. This looked like it might be possible to eat it without ten minutes of chewing. Still, he wasn't sure if he had the energy.
Across the table, Charles casually reached for the wadded-up napkin beside his tray.
"Oh ... Pierce, I'm not hungry either, for obvious reasons," he said with a disdainful sneer at the half-demolished contents of his tray, "so you're welcome to this if you want it." The napkin came off; it was one of the coveted sweet rolls, which he put carelessly on the edge of Hawkeye's tray.
"Oh, my god," Hawkeye said, staring at it. "That actually looks worth eating." He picked it up. It was soft. Actually soft. He wasn't sure when he'd last seen soft bread. He gave it an experimental sniff. "This ... is actual food."
"You're telling me," Charles said with a wistful stare that he hastily wrenched away.
BJ cleared his throat. "Oh yeah, and I was looking for clean socks this morning and found this. I'm not really in the mood, so ..." He set a square of his wife's coveted fudge on the edge of Hawkeye's tray.
"You said that was all gone," Charles said accusingly.
BJ shrugged. "The tin got shoved under my spare socks the last time I got out a clean shirt. Not my fault."
"Guys," Hawkeye said. For once, words failed him. And anyway, he was too tired to come up with anything sentimental.
Instead he tore the roll in half, passed half back over to Charles, and broke the fudge in two and gave the other half to BJ. He set the coffee mug of somewhat edible sausages in the middle of the table where anyone could grab one.
"Turns out I'm a little hungry after all," Hawkeye said, mustering a tired grin. "But only a little."
Even in this place, maybe especially in this place, food tasted better when it was shared with friends.
This was also kind of loosely inspired by a prompt from the 3 Sentence Ficathon, any, any, I saved this for you, because I was browsing the prompt lists around the same time looking for something that would jump out and suggest a fic to me, and my brain latched onto that one as something my recipient might like.
In Good Company (MASH, 1075 wds, team gen, late seasons)
Hawkeye gets to the mess late because of delays in post-op, but his friends are looking out for him.
Also posted on AO3. AO3 tags: "Food As A Metaphor For Love"
It had been a long, miserable day and night in the OR, and Hawkeye didn't manage to finally drag himself off duty until hours after everyone else had gone to crash, shower, or eat. He'd spent a while in post-op afterwards, sitting with a patient whose condition took a while to stabilize, and one of the nurses needed his help with an agitated patient after that.
It was considerably after sunup when he finally slogged out of post-op, still wearing stained scrubs he was too tired to change out of. His hands cramped, his head hurt, and the sun was too high and too bright. Squinting up at it, trying to remember the last time he'd slept, he weighed the relative merits of trying to find something edible in the breakfast chow line versus crashing at the Swamp. There had been rumors of fresh sweet rolls that morning, brought in on last night's supply truck from Seoul, but by now they'd be long gone; there would be nothing left but cold, runny powdered eggs and the worst and most shriveled of the breakfast sausage. He was too tired to be hungry anyway.
Still, he knew from experience that not eating was worse -- probably.
And there was, not inconsequentially, the knowledge that his bunkmates would either be asleep or in the mess, and right now he knew that as tired as he was, he wouldn't be able to get his brain to spin down enough to sleep immediately. He had the option of drinking himself into a stupor in the Swamp, or finding someone to talk to in the mess, so he turned his dragging steps that way.
The chow line was sparse, a few complaining guys from Supply and a couple of nurses just changing shifts. Hawkeye slouched along, picked up a tin tray and received a sloppy mess of eggs that looked even worse than expected, a piece of toast that had apparently been toasted into paving material, and the last cold dregs of the coffee.
But his bunkmates were at a table along the wall, along with Margaret, all of them looking as exhausted as he felt -- though Charles had found the time to shave, apparently -- and they waved him over, so he wobbled to the end of the bench beside Margaret and slumped down across from BJ and Charles.
"You look like Dorian Grey's portrait, Pierce," Charles said.
"Thanks. You should have seen the other guy." Hawkeye stuck his fork in his eggs and found that it stood up on its own, while Margaret wilted sleepily on his shoulder. "Look at that, the kitchen discovered a new element. Maybe it can stand in for concrete the next time we fix the potholes in the road."
"They can serve the concrete in the mess," BJ said.
Hawkeye gestured at him with his fork once he reclaimed it from the eggs. "See, it's a win all around."
Margaret yawned, nudged Hawkeye's shoulder with her chin, and straightened up again. "How's Peckham?" The patient who'd coded twice on the table.
"Awake and talking," Hawkeye said. He smiled without even having to work on it; run down as he was, there were still things to smile about, now and then. "Lieutenant Baker is doing extra checks on him when she does rounds. I told her to wake me up if his BP starts to crash."
"You did good work on that kid, Hawk," BJ told him.
"Yes, a fine job," Charles put in, and added, "Very nearly up to my standards, and I don't say that lightly."
"That's it, Charles," BJ said. "Keep taking those learn-by-mail courses and you'll master the art of the compliment in about another decade."
Charles gave him a halfhearted glare that he was too tired to really pull off.
Margaret yawned again. She'd had her hand over her coffee cup; now she set the mug on the edge of Hawkeye's tray and got up. "I didn't want my breakfast sausage," she told him. "It's the first off the line -- almost edible. Probably cold now, but if you don't want it, the camp dogs will enjoy it. Night, or I guess, morning, boys."
She wandered off sleepily with her tray. Hawkeye looked in -- it wasn't a joke, it was an empty coffee mug with sausage in it. He cautiously nudged a sausage with his fork, then touched it with the back of his fingers. It was cold, but they all knew the early batch were usually the ones that hadn't been cooked into oblivion. This looked like it might be possible to eat it without ten minutes of chewing. Still, he wasn't sure if he had the energy.
Across the table, Charles casually reached for the wadded-up napkin beside his tray.
"Oh ... Pierce, I'm not hungry either, for obvious reasons," he said with a disdainful sneer at the half-demolished contents of his tray, "so you're welcome to this if you want it." The napkin came off; it was one of the coveted sweet rolls, which he put carelessly on the edge of Hawkeye's tray.
"Oh, my god," Hawkeye said, staring at it. "That actually looks worth eating." He picked it up. It was soft. Actually soft. He wasn't sure when he'd last seen soft bread. He gave it an experimental sniff. "This ... is actual food."
"You're telling me," Charles said with a wistful stare that he hastily wrenched away.
BJ cleared his throat. "Oh yeah, and I was looking for clean socks this morning and found this. I'm not really in the mood, so ..." He set a square of his wife's coveted fudge on the edge of Hawkeye's tray.
"You said that was all gone," Charles said accusingly.
BJ shrugged. "The tin got shoved under my spare socks the last time I got out a clean shirt. Not my fault."
"Guys," Hawkeye said. For once, words failed him. And anyway, he was too tired to come up with anything sentimental.
Instead he tore the roll in half, passed half back over to Charles, and broke the fudge in two and gave the other half to BJ. He set the coffee mug of somewhat edible sausages in the middle of the table where anyone could grab one.
"Turns out I'm a little hungry after all," Hawkeye said, mustering a tired grin. "But only a little."
Even in this place, maybe especially in this place, food tasted better when it was shared with friends.
no subject