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Aqua Utopia｜海の底で記憶を紡ぐ
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shark vs the universe
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One Nice Bug Per Day
we're not kids anymore.
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@4o77
[ #4O77 ] An independent, mutuals-only portrayal of M*A*S*H's very own prankster - meets - surgeon : BENJAMIN FRANKLIN " HAWKEYE. " PIERCE. A study in post - traumatic stress, coping through juvenile humor, and the never-ending battle against The Man. As stitched up by Gray ( he/him, 19+ )
Dead Dove Do Not Eat . . . Triggering content ahead. carrd. blogroll. memes. headcanons.
I am and probably will remain SO damn sporadic on all of my blogs both ic and ooc because I have so many irl things going on that I literally barely have time for my own private writing, let alone rp. Call it a semi-hiatus or so if you want, but I'm definitely gonna be around, just in the way a fly sits in a locked drawer waiting for it to open ...
Dutch doesn't flinch when Hawkeye clings to him.
He sits still for a long moment, allowing the man to rest against him in a position most would find uncomfortable. Hawkeye's breath is warm against the fabric as Dutch's gaze is fixed on the tent wall, watching the faint sway of a lantern outside. It moves gently. The world goes on.
Then Hawkeye begins to speak. This time it's a ramble, different from the careless, risqué nonsense Dutch has learned to handle with half-smiles and deadpan counters. No, this is slurred in the way that reveals the truth, the kind of speech that overflows with emotion, what the others call 'soul rot' when they think he isn't listening.
Dutch always listens, but what is he to say when his asset talks like this? When he babbles so beautifully about despair that even the parts that don't make sense somehow make too much sense?
He feels the shift in Hawkeye's fingers as they grip his undershirt, sensing a tremor radiating from where they touch. It's like Hawkeye is forcing meaning into his chest, as if pressing hard enough could make the universe understand.
With deliberate care, Dutch sets his pistol away from Hawkeye, making sure not to startle him, and only then does he speak.
"I think you lost me at the toaster oven."
His voice is calm and low, with just a hint of the dry wit Hawkeye has instilled in him, as he scans Hawkeye's face.
"But you say you want to forget, and yet you're here. You didn't go to your bunk; you came here. That tells me you don't really want to forget. You want someone else to remember with you."
Dutch exhales softly through his nose, the way he's learned people do when they're tired and don't want to scare someone who's already halfway drowned in whatever's pulling them under.
"I can do that. If you want."
Remembering's all he can offer, really, because Dutch doesn't know how to grieve for people he's never met. Doesn't know how to be angry at mud for doing what mud does. But he knows that Hawkeye feels everything as if it's clawing at him from the inside, and he's starting to understand, with a certain logic, that it's not about solving the problem. It's about not running away from it.
"And you should really sit down. You can barely stand on your own two feet. And if you fall, I'll have to catch you. And if I catch you, you'll be embarrassed tomorrow."
THE PISTOL IS AS MUCH a wound as the war itself is. It is the war, even, in metal and black. The very reason he finds forced employment under the eagle's dirty wing. To see it set aside is to breathe. Only a little. Shrapnel of air striking lungs, inaudible but visible in how his gaze flicks to the weapon. Why a medical unit might ever allow such a thing within it will never be sensible to Hawkeye. It will never track, no matter how many arrows point to self-defense and preparation for enemy attack.
The enemy is only a factor, a big, gaping hole in which they hurl young boys and girls. The enemy is war. It does that. The big monster. The violent, violent, violent sister to greed and ambition gone sideways. The pistols, the soldiers, the doctors, the MUD, they all belong to War.
Hawkeye wishes so dearly, today, not to belong to it. Just for a minute or two. An hour. A night. Forever and ever, but just for today. He wants to claw his way of out of quicksand and for no explicable reason - on instinct - he had found Dutch a branch on which to clasp. He also belongs to the war, after all. He may not seem so inclined to scorn it as Hawkeye would wish, but perhaps it matters little. He remains its victim.
"I won't be embarrassed if you catch me. I think it's best you don't, though. My head's been wanting an intimate relationship with the ground for some time now. You ever hear your own skull crackle? I can't decide if that'll be sobering or not." He still complies. He sits down, sagging shoulders clearly just as desirous of the floor as the rest of him. "I'm hoping not." He looks above, finds Dutch's hazy complexion riddled in whatever contraption of alcoholic bliss had failed. "What makes you think I want to remember? What makes you think I want to - to torture you with it, too?" He's not wrong, but how right is he? Does Hawkeye want to remember or does he want it all to fade away? Both and neither. He wants to empathize, but does so much the he wishes he could disappear. He feels so little, yet so, so much. All of it and none of it: that is what it means to clean the hog-house. Shovel the muck. Forget the stench. Your hands hurt and you wish to gag.
"What I want is to stuff my shoe up MacArthur's behind. I don't suppose you can drop him here in a crater, can you?" He gives a smile, something so pathetic in how wide and agonized it is. It is still his own, so filled with that cynicism and poetic wit, but it burns against the sides of his cheeks. Sometimes misery leaves you so aghast that you can only smile at it. Smile and keep crying. "We need an alternative, Dutch. We do."
I love this man.
oh to go awol and become a b-girl
MASH s04e24 - The Interview
[[ U+003F ]] An independent, mutuals-only portrayal of that one bastard rogue who won't stop saying 'riddle me this' : DETECTIVE COMICS' very own EDWARD NYGMA. A study in controlled insanity, compulsive behavior & the line between hubris and intellect. As doomed by Gray ( he/him. 19+. )
The Pitt isn't a successor to ER. It's a successor to MASH.
Hawkeye Pierce when he goes "he he he" reblog to agree
not much wounded sans his pride, really. enemy lines were one thing, apparently local flora and fauna were another entirely. coming back in one subjective piece was a godsend, allegedly, but the rather mean black eye forming where hefty tree branch had snapped upward, sticking into liner, made him wish that he'd been tentatively poised in mobilized surgical hospital on much more appropriate means. the low grade headache is offense enough, hands patting over uniform pockets for well-loved lighter as tongue flicks frustrated at the end of cigarette pinched between teeth. if he'd dropped that goddamn lighter somewhere out there ...
jesus christ - the coil of muscles jolting under skin is perhaps telling, eyes flicking back in hawkeye's direction under the easy light of early evening. he'd been hoping for a bit of time to decompress in the muddied abyss of his own thoughts, to reflect on the fact that a few of his guys were laid up in a sea of jeeps and busied hands. but this is the army, and more than that, an active warzone ... there was no such thing as alone.
❛ you got a light ? ❜ a complete disregard for sentiment in the moment, john gives up searching for any semblance of lighter or standard issue matches, brows perked upwards as he inspects the other briefly. no dice. he knows the idea wont die so easily, and with a huff through nostrils flared, he plucks somewhat chewed cigarette from his mouth. ❛ war machine is really pumpin' out tasks, what can i say. keeping us real busy, but no worse than other places we've been. ❜ there's a pause, a look of blatant expectation as cigarette flicks absently between fingers, as if to ask if the answer he'd given was appeasing enough for a favor.
❛ nothing to worry about, ya know. could always be a helluva lot worse. ❜ a stagnant, secondary pause ... john's head inclines, lashes batting with a playful sense. anything tied to previous events slides into the crevasses between passing thoughts - there was no time to look at them now anyway, if there'd ever be time at all. ❛ light ? ❜
injury meme. @4o77
THE NURSE HE'D STRUNG to tired side seems to have slipped away, entranced by some other morbid desire to have fun before their next wave of patients becomes the inevitability that it is. It gives him focus - unwanted, if he could be honest - to spare mundane surroundings. This little slice of Korea is remarkable in that it is absolutely not. Stagnant. No amount of bombings and parties and five O'clock Charlies ever manage to make it look any less familiar. If anything, they do the opposite, to the musing surgeon's dismay.
Which is why his eyes, in search for even a speck of novelty, travel to John - a title-or-the-other he can't recall, black eye, one of those cases he couldn't help the tingle of relief to see. Treats, almost, amidst bowels made of shrapnel and intestines filled with bullets and shells. Still, it's rare to see one out on his own, not dreading mess-tent abominations or pressing palm to the back of a nurse in post-op.
The first thing he asks for is a light. Hawkeye has one. A lighter, because nothing about him is standard-issued besides the dread. He is, however, still Hawkeye, with such obnoxiousness to him at times and the very faintest of shames to boot.
"Always." He has to agree. "Then don't consider me worried. Consider me morbidly curious. Was it another soldier who socked you solid or did you try to have an affair with the backside of a jeep?" And a smile. Not quite as subtle as the light that hits it. Not even quite as warm. More singeing, like an itch to the eyes. Wide, playful - to mirror and to add, and a little devil-kissed. A lighter finds its way to view, flicked and flashed in front of the soldier as though to say lookie here, before it shuts and slips away. Like everything here. Like hope. "You shine some light where I'm painfully ignorant and I'll consider putting one to the end of your cigarette." Why? Because he is bored. Because this is war, and he hates it here. Because the-hell-of-it is as good a reason as any, and he needs a break. "I'll even give you the whole thing free of charge if you tell it to me like a story."
@4o77
The sounds coming from camp’s makeshift bar a couple of tents over have begun to diminish with their usual weary cadence: laughter fading, metal cups clinking with less vigor, the crunch of boots on dirt as the soldiers stumble back to whatever passes for peace.
Dutch had gone to bed long before the final toast. Not because he needed to rest, but because the ritual demanded it. Humans sleep. So he lied down, arms crossed over his chest, his body going into energy-saving mode. However, his mind remained alert, silently processing every heartbeat, every footstep, every drop in temperature.
Most nights, it’s unnecessary. The 4077th, as chaotic as it is, respects boundaries. Nobody bothers Dutch.
But tonight is different.
There’s movement outside his tent—unusual, offbeat, and uncoordinated. Something knocks over a bucket, followed by a mumbled curse. Dutch’s eyes snap open, sensors adjusting in milliseconds. In a single, fluid motion, he sits up, sheet rolling to his waist, forgotten. The gun under his pillow is already in hand, pointed at the entrance in perfect, lethal alignment.
Then the flap creaks and opens, and…
"Oh. It’s just you."
The tension drains from the machine’s shoulders as his systems confirm what his eyes already know: Hawkeye. Not an enemy. Not a stranger. Just… A disheveled man, uneven on his feet, trailing the bar’s final notes with a fresh cloud of alcohol that hits the air like a memory.
Dutch lowers the weapon, but doesn’t put it away. He’s learned better than that.
"What are you doing here? Lost your way over to your tent?"
But he already knows. He knows what happened in the OR hours ago. Another name added to the list. Another body closed up and sent out. Dutch is beginning to understand why war breaks humans more than it builds them.
IT'S HIM, BUT ISN'T. That is his body, that slumps against the doorway, enters the tent and dips head into shoulder. That is his face, that hides inside. Those are his eyes that water. But it is not Hawkeye Pierce, prankster-surgeon, who controls them. It's his good friend the Martini and its ever-demanding wife, the war, that fire every neuron the way it does.
Six hours, it was. Six times a difficult operation because the big puppeteers winding the backs of their puppets up thought it would be wise not to test the puppets first. New timers. New timers tend to be the worst once their luck runs out and their spirit leaves their body to envelop artillery and broken bootstraps.
Mud. Mud did it. Between the shrapnel in his chest and the tank he stumbled off and the three officers he no doubt slammed into, it was mud. It was not the enemy's bullet that entered his leg, or the firing squad that sough to wreck him, it was mud. A single droplet reaching bullet as it enters and keeps going, going and going past the metal thing.
The chest was in such sorry state it took all their efforts. Yet Hawkeye removed the bullet. He knows he removed the bullet and he knows that he sponged it.
Three hours later, beyond the six, which makes them nine, he was given a time of death on the way to the officer's club.
So, no. It isn't him. It isn't him at all. Yet the tragedy is that deep down, it is all him.
He mumbles into shoulder. Something that, if asked, he himself will not recall. And he pulls away to hold said shoulder and the other and ever-so-slightly, with a weakness that is almost impressive, shake.
"Isn't it so incredible that we can sit here and drink and cry and laugh and pretend like any of this is within the realms of reality? Like this couldn't possibly be the reckoning of all of our insanities wrapped in a terrible nightmare so bleak that we can't fathom our own minds telling us it is all of their conception?" He stops shaking him, tremor in his hands clear as he presses index to chest, mirroring typical habit. "And if my theory is right - if we are all just stuck in a collective sleepwalking nightmare coma that never wants to end, then I can just close my eyes right now and Radar will come tap me on the shoulder and say the kid's alive. That mud - mud, the very mettle of Adam, the first bastard, didn't just kill a kid in the middle of war with an infection so minute that I could've sucked it in with a hole in my pinky." He gestures with both palms turned open.
"But that's not going to happen. No, it's not. You wanna know why? The very obvious reason it's not?" He doesn't wait for an answer. "Because this isn't a nightmare and my theory - as I called it - is just the product of wishful thinking so desperate that I am able to down ten martinis in a row and feel absolutely nothing but the same I continue to feel. Isn't that funny? Clown school shudders at the hilarity." He raises a sole finger.
"Nothing works and nothing matters. Besides, of course, that which works and that which matters. Nothing is sensible except what we say is sensible. And right now I think forgetting is the most sensible sensibility since the conception of toaster ovens and little eskimo hats sewn for kittens. Do you follow me?"
@daemondaes found a terrible pass-time.
Naux finds this a ridiculous exercise, as evidenced by her copious commentary, and yet she's filled it out anyway. Well, there are worse ways to waste time.
HE DOESN'T EXPECT her to seriously fill it out. He doesn't expect anyone to, really, unless they've been in the sheets together and wanted to signal interest in another round. That was about it. This, he finds, with the comments and everything, is almost satisfying. As well as, of course, an opportunity.
"My mother always told me: Benjamin, darling, all I want is for you to find yourself a kind, polite woman with symmetrical lines on your bingo card. It's a sign of goodwill and fertility." He offers a hand, smile given a little too much curve. "And to that I say: angel of mercy, will you join me in the very American, almost matrimonial act of pre-marital consummation?"
send one for my muse’s reaction to your muse ---
Alternatively, send ‘ + ‘ after the symbol for the roles to be reversed where possible! Please specify the muse for multimuses!
✘ = hugging them.
Δ = playing with their hair.
❤ = kissing them.
₪ = asking them out for dinner.
☀ = giving them a gift of _ ( asker’s choice ) .
♘ = stabbing them.
♕ = bowing down before them.
♒ = lying to them.
✿ = buying them flowers.
☾ = being found shirtless.
♢ = reading them a story.
☂ = giving them their jumper to keep warm.
✎ = speaking in a different language.
✏ = teaching them a different language.
▄ = telling them a joke.
♬ = singing to them.
☹ = insulting a loved one.
ஐ = slapping them.
✂ = threatening them.
❃ = dancing with them.
▤ = falling asleep on them.
☮ = waking them up after a nightmare.
♣ = discovering them crying.
回 = patching a wound.
✮ = stargazing.
▓ = caught stealing their belongings.
☽ = wandering alone at night.
♡ = complimenting them.
≡ = offering a place to stay overnight.
☢ = falling over.
✦ = being well-dressed.
❂ = wiping blood off their face.
◎ = taking care of them while ill.
☁ = being caught in the middle of a storm with them.
⇕ = holding their hand.
↱ = being lost with them.
☠ = pushing them against a wall.
don't get me wrong: i wasn't suicidal. thinking you're going to die and wanting to die are two totally different things. i didn't have a death wish. (...) sometimes you don't care if it's you or the people you're hunting that die ... just as long as it isn't the people you're leading.
@dumbthink might go insane.
does nadine win
INCREDIBLE, REALLY. So much potential, there, for a partner in crime. Things have been dull lately. Perhaps he could tempt them to join him in livening the waiting room up with a few classics. But first, something has to be done about the score at hand.
"The three empty squares must have you peeved - there has to be a way to fix this heinous injustice." A pause for dramatic effect, of course. "What say you we find some bleach?" Run.
@hartlines gets a taste of hell .
"dutch is the exception not the rule" well he better be
THERE'S MUCH TOO enticing a selection, here. He almost doesn't know where to begin. Almost. He remains Hawkeye Pierce, after all, and spontaneity happens to come with the territory.
"Ah, my favorite Captain." He takes his time, slithering 'round to Dutch with an arm snaked around his shoulder, draping just a centimeter short of his chest. There's so much impulse control put into that motion, though one wouldn't know it from the way he smirks. "I am most intrigued by the few that suggest you're willing to help me spread the seeds of my devilish delight across camp. I should have expected it, really - but I was too blinded by the hope that all three of you would meet me behind the nurses' shower for a thorough physical." He lets go, only to take him by a single shoulder. "Come, my good man, come with me to the ends of the earth. Do you have experience with hammers?"
@scrubschanged is digging a certain type of grave.
HE GOES THROUGH every square with deliberation to poke, slipping blues up and down every single time he checks one. He can't help it: the man is much too pleasant to tease.
"Three - the magic number, the charm, the very enticing composition rule." And there flashes that ever-irritating grin. "Someone's at high risk of the corrosive decay that is my affection." He wags his finger, terrible warning mangled into playful tone. "I'll even count the eyes for you - sad is a derivative of soulful if you perceive misery to be an intrinsic state of the human soul. Which, as the goddess of luck and happenstance would have it, I do."
