Mad World

By: OneSongKatie

Disclaimer: I don't own these guys, or MASH, or anything cool. I just like to pretend I do by spending hours of my life writing about them. You can be jealous. Meanwhile, MASH really belongs to 20th Century FOX.

Summary: H/M. Hawkeye POV. Scary dreams, people randomly walking around in the middle of the night. Loads of angsty-goodness. This fic sort of fits in with the other stories in the series. And by that I mean, I originally intended it to be a part of that arc, but now I'm not sure if it really works there. Consider the dream Hawkeye has at the beginning of Midnight Musings to be a lighter version of the one in this story.

Note: I wrote this last week on vacation after watching the movie Donnie Darko. There are quite a few shout outs to it throughout the fic, for those who have seen the film. (If you haven't, well, frankly, get your ass to a Blockbuster and rent it, right now. Scratch that. Read the fic, write a review—good, bad, terrible, death threats, whatever I'll take 'em—then head to Blockbuster.) The song featured in the title and the story, Mad World, is taken from the movie's soundtrack, performed by Gary Jule, although I believe Tears for Fears originally recorded it. There's also a line from the movie in there somewhere, for posterity's sake.

All around me are familiar faces
Worn out places, worn out faces
Bright and early for their daily races
Going nowhere, going nowhere
And their tears are filling up their glasses
No expression, no expression
Hide my head I want to drown my sorrow
No tomorrow, no tomorrow

And I find it kind of funny
I find it kind of sad
The dreams in which I'm dying
Are the best I've ever had
I find it hard to tell you
I find it hard to take
When people run in circles
It's a very, very
Mad World

The sun shined brightly upon his face, though he didn't feel warm from it. It was morning, and a fog hugged the ground on which he stood.

Looking down at himself, Hawkeye discovered he wore a black suit, and shiny dress shoes.

He stiffened, feeling a very old, very familiar fear creeping into his mind.

Hawkeye walked hesitantly onward. He knew this, remembered this—the green hill, the row of hedges, even the smell of honeysuckle in the breeze. He was ten years old at his mother's funeral. He could see now, through the group of bystanders to where the casket stood, waiting to be lowered into the ground. The stabbing grief that had dulled in the lifetime he'd known since this day returned swiftly now, momentarily stealing his breath.

In the dream, Hawkeye found it difficult to move. His throat hurt from clenching.

Suddenly, the figures began moving slowly towards him. He recognized with chilly dread the faces of friends he'd made at the 4077th. Everything was so confusing. This was wrong—they were wrong here. Silently the familiar figures each walked by him, touching him lightly as they faded back into the crowd. There was BJ, and Radar, Colonel Potter, Charles, and even Trapper. All wore black. Hawkeye went cold as Henry Blake solemnly walked past. This was wrong, he repeated silently. So very wrong. Then there was no one left. They'd all gone. He began to panic, realizing that right now—this moment, when all the guests began to leave—was when he was supposed to go say goodbye to his mother. Your turn now, son, walk on up. Go tell your mother you love her. Say goodbye, Hawkeye. His heart thudded in his ears, insisting he go onward. He had to go. As he began to move steadily down the aisle he noticed one figure remained beside the casket, staring on. Because the person wore a hooded garment, he could not make out whom it was. Then they turned. He stopped, shocked. This was wrong. This wasn't how it was supposed to happen.

Hawkeye jolted awake, choking on the scream threatening to surge out of him. The darkness of the tent seemed to be pressing downward upon him, causing his hands to clutch the sides of the cot to fight the sudden pressure. Shadows became solid shapes moving in the darkness, waiting to consume him completely. His breath came in ragged gasps, and Hawkeye found he was sweating despite the coolness of the night air.

He propped himself shakily on his elbows, frantically willing the unnatural rhythm of his breathing to slow.

He could barely think above the roar his heart made thudding violently in his chest. God, why was this happening? Why now? What did the dreams mean? And why, for Christ's sake, did they always stop right at that moment? Hawkeye swallowed.

It's not real. He repeated silently over and over.

Not real.

Why couldn't he make himself believe that?

He resolutely pushed the damp hair out of his eyes. Swinging his legs over the side of the cot, Hawkeye knew he would sleep no more tonight. Not after that. He clumsily put his boots on, wondering where exactly he intended to go.

It didn't matter. Just out, anywhere, he decided. Anywhere but this tent.

It wasn't real. Just a dream, he wanted to scream.

Hawkeye closed his eyes for a moment, trying not to finish that thought.

A dream, which grew harder and harder to escape from with each passing night.

That's not true! He exclaimed inwardly, protesting that that dream was no different from any other. But something laughed derisively inside his head and he knew he couldn't lie to himself. No matter how much he wished it so.

Hawkeye closed his eyes again. Unbidden, images from the beginning of the dream flooded into his consciousness.

Mist shimmered over the grass in front of him. It was morning. He was walking through a set of hedges—towering hedges that loomed above him, casting their shadow over his eyes. He dragged his hands lightly over branches, moving through the row, searching for...for what? For the way out, he told himself. He was trying to get out.

BJ mumbled something unintelligible across the room as he rolled over, jolting Hawkeye momentarily from his reverie. Hawkeye smiled thinly at his friend's sleeping form. Thanks Beej.

At least someone was sleeping peacefully around here, he joked a little desperately, glancing in Charles' direction. It's no wonder I have nightmares, Hawkeye added quickly, with Chuckles over there snoring the brass section of Beethoven's 5th. Or was it something by Wagner? A little of both, maybe? Hawkeye continued to quip rapidly in his head in a mad effort to put the dream from his mind.

But despite this stream of manic thoughts, terror remained, whispering underneath the churning of his brain.

The tent suddenly felt very small.

I've got to get out of here, he realized with increasing hysteria.

Hawkeye finished tying his bootlaces, and, randomly grabbing a green uniform jacket, practically ran out of the tent. He stepped into the night air, breathing deeply.

Somehow the shadows seemed less oppressive outside, perhaps because the night was unnaturally bright. Despite the late hour, the camp was swathed in soft light supplied by an almost-full moon.

Feeling both comforted and a little unnerved by the brightness of the moonlight, Hawkeye stood motionless, staring at the camp. It looked so peaceful now—deceptively so. If he didn't know better—or worse, as was certainly the case—he would never guess that this site marked so much violence. So much death.

The sweat on his body dried swiftly in the chilly breeze stirring dust beneath his feet. He shivered in only a t-shirt and fatigue pants. Hawkeye slipped into his jacket, shoving his hands into its pockets.

Now what? He wondered, trying to ignore the trembling of his hands.

Hawkeye barely noticed when his legs began to walk. He moved steadily, as if he knew exactly where he intended to go. Had he decided to go somewhere? He couldn't remember. It scared him that he couldn't remember.

Hawkeye wondered silently if he was losing his mind.

As if in answer, his hands continued shaking violently in the coat pockets. Hawkeye felt like yanking them out of the jacket and screaming at them. Why am I so goddamned afraid? What is happening to me?

He realized suddenly he'd stopped moving.

Looking up, Hawkeye furrowed his eyebrows. What had brought him here?

He continued to stare dumbly at Margaret's door. Was he really losing his mind? Hawkeye genuinely worried. Maybe he was cracking up. Was that what the dream meant? A downward spiral into madness?

Now that he thought about it, maybe coming here was his idea.

Hawkeye studied the door intensely, trying like hell to figure out what it was that drew him here. He had barely spoken to Margaret recently. Well, he amended, of course, by that he meant other than asking her to retract some poor person's flesh back a little further or yelling for her to suction the blood pooling around another man's organs.

This place will kill us all, he thought grimly.

One way or another

Because it was killing him. Of that he felt irrefutably certain. Time had seemed to slow recently. No, that was wrong he decided. Time had been swallowed. Lost and never regained to the lives of men he'd saved. Or failed to save, he added absent-mindedly.

Such a waste. Hawkeye paused. Had he said that out loud? He sighed. This was happening more and more lately—the lines between conscious and unconscious blurring in his mind. Reality, for him, was little more than a strange, incorporeal idea, something he'd once known but had lost without realizing it.

And now he had trouble distinguishing between it from the world in which he currently existed.

Hawkeye felt as if he lived in a constant state of waking sleep, operating mindlessly for countless hours before collapsing on his cot. He functioned, technically. He worked, he ate, he went to bed. Though he never really slept.

Not without the dreams.

He shuddered. No, not dreams, nightmares. A dream is something happy, hopeful—something you wanted. And while he could very possibly be losing his mind, he knew deeply he didn't wish for this.

No, Hawkeye decided, these were nightmares, in every sense of the word—a frightening series of images his mind concocted while performing impossible tasks in an impossible place surrounded by the blood of innocents.

Well, actually, he amended, he wasn't sure if it was his mind or this place that produced the dreams. Nor did he know anymore whether the dreams were caused by his insanity, or whether they were, in fact, driving him to insanity.

Either way he was crazy.

But how could he not be? He demanded angrily. He was always at least a little cold, and he never felt rested, the food grew more heinous with each passing day, and the only thing that ever changed was the face of the person he operated on.

Hawkeye barely acknowledged the passage of time anymore. He thought maybe a month had gone by in this fashion. But he wasn't sure. It was so hard to know if it was today or tomorrow. Now everything seemed fluid—days and nights that ran into each other, fusing together to form one giant block of time unable to be measured by any means available to the conscious human being.

He hadn't really seen Margaret in days. Not since the beginning of this latest crazy parade of dismemberment, he cracked without laughing. He realized darkly it wasn't funny. Well, maybe it was. But he was too exhausted to care either way.

It had been hell lately. It was hell in Hell, he joked, almost angrily.

He suddenly felt like laughing hysterically, but was afraid he'd start crying instead. The noise this produced cut violently through the quiet of the darkened compound, sounding like a strangled gasp, which, oddly enough, reminded him distinctly of someone who'd been stabbed in the throat, choking on his own blood.

Hawkeye knew exactly how this sounded because he'd treated a patient for that particular injury earlier this week. Lucky him.

But then, more wounded had flooded here in the last few days than he ever thought possible. Hawkeye sighed, exasperated. There was no time for acting like human beings, anymore. Just endless surgery.

It frightened him when began to consciously envy the wounded. At least they left this place, one way or another, he thought. He never left. No, he remained long after the patient flew away in a chopper and died hours later because of internal bleeding after landing in Tokyo, or another who might've lived but died just the same because his ambulance crashed.

He used to feel angry about things like that. Working on a patient for hours, trying like hell to fight death, only to realize the soldier would die one way or another. That used to make him furious. Now he mostly felt cold.

When he thought about it now, he realized it had been a long time since he'd actually felt warm. Such a simple thing—to be warm. You wouldn't think something like that would seem such a novelty. But it was.

He used to think, before Korea, that hell would be excruciatingly hot, full of scorching flames and burning, stinging pain. Now Hawkeye knew the truth. Hell was cold. A bitter, quiet cold that never stopped chipping away at your bones, no matter how close to the stove you stood or how tightly you pulled a blanket around you.

It had just been so long. Too long. He was losing his mind, and these dreams—this dream, continued to drive him further and further toward desperation.

Hawkeye couldn't help feeling that desperation wasn't really it. No, surely there was some darker fate awaiting him.

Maybe it wasn't a coincidence that he stood here, after all.

"Hawkeye?"

He whirled, startled by the sudden sound. Margaret stood a few feet away, staring at him oddly. "What are you doing?" She asked, not unkindly. He noticed immediately the shadows under her eyes.

He wondered idly how he could possibly answer her question without sounding like a lunatic. He couldn't help but think it was a bad sign when he couldn't find a way.

"Margaret." Hawkeye finally said with difficulty, staring down at her. He blinked feverishly, trying to clear his head. Fiercely brushing the hair out of his eyes, he suddenly noticed she wore her uniform under her coat. "Why are you wearing that?" He blurted out in a strange voice.

Margaret blinked at him. "I was working," she answered simply, without missing a beat. She stared at him through what seemed like impossibly dark eyes.

When he didn't reply, Margaret continued tiredly without changing the tone of her voice, "Why are you staring at my door, Pierce?"

Hawkeye studied her, his mind blurred. She looked strange tonight. He realized with a start it was her eyes. They looked glassier than usual, shining intensely through the dim light, half-hidden in shadows cast by dark circles underneath them. She looked haunted, he thought a little afraid. It was wrong.

She was wrong.

In a brief moment of lucidity something occurred to him. "Didn't you work earlier this evening, with me?" He asked, a little suspiciously. That was a rational thought! Hawkeye congratulated himself. He felt relieved for a moment that he was still capable of coherent speech.

Hawkeye tried not to notice the chilly stare in which Margaret now fixed him. Inexplicably, he felt the fear he'd only begun to suppress, rise yet again. Focus, he nearly shouted aloud to himself, keep talking.

She looked at him silently, her face a mask. For a moment he could think once more, and he realized Margaret's explanation didn't really make sense.

He continued slowly as the situation became more and more strange to him, "You and I left the OR at the same time tonight."

Margaret shrugged. "So?" She replied diffidently. Her strangely dark eyes continued to carve into him, so Hawkeye closed his own. This was too hard. He didn't want to see her anymore. He couldn't stand the look on her face.

It reminded him too much of the look on his own.

This was terrifying. She was terrifying. Get it together. Say something. He was fading again, falling down to the darkness he feared more than anything. He almost screamed out loud. Keep talking!

Hawkeye abruptly opened his eyes, cocking his head. "So...you, what? Just couldn't get enough death? Went back for more carnage?" His voice sounded harder, more sarcastic than he intended. Where did that come from? He wondered.

God, he must be crazy. Or suicidal, he offered. Of all the people he could conceivably piss off right now, Margaret was not the best choice.

But instead of getting angry, she merely said quietly, "I went for a walk."

He was momentarily taken aback. Hawkeye considered this. "A walk?" He repeated as if the word possessed some mysterious meaning beyond the obvious.

Margaret looked at him oddly, nodding. Noting her expression, he nervously commented, "Well, it's just that it's now the middle of the night, so..." He trailed off, hoping like hell she'd finish the sentence. He didn't like this new, eerily quiet Margaret.

She shrugged again. "It was a long walk." Her voice betrayed no emotion. Hawkeye studied her face for a long moment, trying to figure out what the hell she meant.

He knew with the tiny shiver he felt gradually traveling through his body, that he really didn't like this Margaret.

Hawkeye realized with a start she scared him. Margaret was assertive and intense, the strongest woman he'd ever known, someone who, through sheer power of will, made mountains tremble.

But tonight she seemed none of those things.

He knew suddenly of what this new Margaret reminded him.

Once, when Hawkeye was finishing medical school, he visited an asylum...He couldn't remember the name. Anyway, while he was there he walked by an observation room with one of those one-way windows—the kind used for watching a patient without their knowledge. He remembered the room was also sound proof, because the person inside was clearly pounding on the Plexi-glass and shrieking hysterically.

But you couldn't hear a thing on the outside.

It was more than a little unnerving. And certainly no less so tonight. On the surface Margaret seemed completely emotionless, but he couldn't shake the feeling that there was someone screaming underneath.

He sighed inwardly, knowing suddenly that he'd wanted to take comfort in Margaret when he stopped in front of her tent tonight. They'd come together for similar reasons a handful of times over the past year. Tonight he'd wanted her to be tough for both of them, yet again. But now that looked impossible.

He nodded, understanding what she'd meant by a long walk. She was drowning too. He refused to admit what this meant.

"It's been a long night," he agreed finally.

Margaret continued to stonily stare at him as if she were waiting for him to leave. He was reminded once again of the inmate beating hysterically on the plexi-glass, though outwardly Margaret remained completely motionless. He studied her, swallowing an impulse to physically shake her.

She really did look beautiful, he thought wistfully. Her skin shone unnaturally under the brilliant moon, and her eyes, magnified by its light, contrasted strikingly with the shadows sculpting the lines of her face.

He realized she was the only person he knew who managed to become more attractive when she looked terrible.

Hawkeye took a deep breath. "Margaret, do you want to take a walk with me?" He asked quietly, surprising himself. What the hell. It beat walking alone.

She looked at him for a moment, her eyes glittering darkly. "Yeah," she finally answered, exhaling heavily, "A few more laps around the camp can't hurt."

Hawkeye knew sadly that he feared her current state, and that she could no longer help him, but he also knew that more than anything, he didn't want to be alone anymore. Not after the dream. And even if he was crazy, he could still pretend to be sane. Better start practicing now.

Margaret began to walk toward the path on the edge of the compound. He fell in step beside her easily.

They remained silent and for a long time, the only sound interrupting the stillness of the morning was the crunch of dirt beneath their feet. Hawkeye noticed suddenly his hands no longer shook. He took them out of his pockets for the first time, flexing his fingers.

"Out walking, huh?" He asked casually, breaking the silence with more confidence than he felt. His voice sounded unnatural, out of key. He cleared his throat.

Hawkeye thought for a moment she seemed startled by his voice, but if that was indeed the case, she hid it quickly.

Margaret nodded, exhaling. "Too tired to sleep." He realized she'd been doing that all night—letting out a deep breath before speaking. Like talking somehow reminded her to breathe. It was unsettling.

He shook his head, replying, "No such thing, Margaret." Hawkeye tried to grin at her. It made his face feel strained, taut.

She glanced at him seriously and seemed to consider his words. "Maybe, I just wanted to spend some time outside of a tent. Outside of the operating room," she said casually, and the note of meaninglessness in her voice scared him. He could tell she was trying very hard to maintain a steady tone, but her words came just a beat too fast, too measured, and he noticed she couldn't completely mask the tiny tremor at the end of the sentence.

Margaret was unhinging him. He'd wanted her to help him earlier, and instead, she was making things worse.

God she was scaring him.

But a moment ago, she had said something very important, something that could begin to explain things. And when he considered what she'd said, how could he argue with her words?

"Yeah," he agreed wholeheartedly, curbing an impulse to shriek hysterically when he thought about spending another minute in surgery. This must be what a nervous breakdown feels like, he noted grimly. Like something inside your head has come loose, and now you can't remember things—important things like whether you're speaking words or just thinking them, and then the blank looks people give you only confuse you more. Like the----

"You know, you never answered my question." Margaret's voice cut through his inner rant, bringing him back to the present. He could have imagined it, but she sounded more confident to him, and the tremor he'd detected earlier had disappeared.

Hawkeye immediately breathed a small sigh of relief. Maybe Margaret was coming back! He hoped so. He didn't think he could handle his own insanity and hers, too. Hawkeye felt like cheering.

She continued to stare at him expectantly. What had she asked? Something about a question?

He swallowed, replying weakly, "What question would that be?"

"What you were doing standing in front of my tent."

"Oh." Hawkeye answered. He grew silent. What the hell could he say?

She abruptly stopped walking and faced him. Hawkeye sensed her movement and turned, looking at her anxiously, a little surprised by her sudden energy.

He paused, taking a moment to scan the area around him. He thought they were standing in a clearing in the woods on the edge of camp, but he didn't recognize the terrain. He certainly couldn't see the camp anymore.

Hawkeye fought the sudden urge to run away. It would be so easy to just not walk back to camp. And while he knew he could most certainly do something that cowardly right now, she would never agree to it.

Margaret took a step toward him. He almost gasped out loud when he got a closer look at her face. From this distance he saw vividly how utterly exhausted she looked. She was very pale, and underneath her eyes, dark circles gleamed like garish bruises in the moonlight. Her face had grown increasingly gaunt recently, Hawkeye realized.

So had the rest of her, he noticed for the first time.

My God, what had happened to her? A better question would be, where was I when this happened, he thought angrily. He continued to stare at her sadly, helplessly.

The moonlight made her face look softer, more vulnerable. Hawkeye suddenly felt an overwhelming desire to touch her cheek.

"Listen, is something wrong?" Margaret asked, abruptly ending his reverie, crossing her arms. She was trying to be stern, emotionless—Hawkeye saw a flash of the former Major for a brief moment. But the glassy sheen of her eyes betrayed her, and she only succeeded in sounding a little frantic. He couldn't handle this. It was too tragic. Hawkeye felt for a moment as if he might cry.

Instead, he let out a short laugh, retorting, "You mean other than everything?" He'd meant to seem flippant, cavalier, even.

Not desperate.

She didn't return the laugh and for a moment Hawkeye thought he saw a glimmer of intense sadness flash across her eyes. Then it was gone, leaving him wondering whether he'd imagined it. Margaret continued looking at him as if she wanted to speak—either that or burst into tears. He couldn't decipher which was which anymore.

He glanced at her again searching for...something. He didn't know what, exactly. Not finding it, Hawkeye turned away to stare at the dark horizon.

Maybe he should tell her? Tell her about the nightmares, and the possibility of his impending insanity. It might help, he argued. But then, why did he suddenly feel deeply afraid at the thought? Why was this so hard? What did he see in her face that made him so afraid? More afraid.

Hawkeye discovered the reason why he hadn't wanted to tell her about the dreams earlier had morphed into something else. Before tonight, he just didn't want to show her weakness. She had always been tough—tougher than he was, anyway. Not taking into account her unnerving behavior tonight, Margaret usually kept her fears and her pain to herself. He was much louder.

And, normally that didn't bother him, but with this...it was just so damn pathetic. Nightmares? Was he seven?

But now, he realized, it looked as if even Margaret was losing the battle with this place, this war. He couldn't tell her. How could he hope to win if she couldn't? He was barely making headway climbing uphill and she seemed to be falling just as quickly. And that was why he couldn't tell her. Not now. He couldn't bear the thought, closing his eyes against its implications.

Again the nightmare flooded over him, picking up where the earlier vision had left off. It couldn't be stopped now, and the images came in increasing sharpness.

The hedges stretched on for miles. It seemed suddenly that they'd grown to such a monstrous height as to almost entirely blot out the sun. Abruptly, he burst through a gap in the row, squinting in the full light of morning.

He heard Margaret's voice calling him. She sounded far away.

He stood on green grass at the foot of a hill. Hawkeye couldn't explain it, but he knew without doubt that he would find what he searched for at its top. What was he searching for, though? You know, a voice said. Do I? He wondered. He began to climb. The sun shined brightly on his face, and he felt the first drops of moisture form between his eyes. He climbed as quickly as he could, but the hill seemed to continue on without end. Hawkeye began to despair, feeling his body tire. He sat frustrated on the ground for a moment, willing his legs to move. Why was this so hard? He felt a surge of anger at himself and his weakness, and at the impossible hill stretching on in front of him. Rising angrily to stand, he screamed at the hill, not understanding how he could possibly climb something so high. He discovered suddenly the ground felt wet under his feet. Looking down, Hawkeye realized with horror he was walking in blood. It was everywhere. A sea of blood swallowing his ankles. He slipped, falling to his knees. When he wiped the sweat from his eyes his hand left a bloody smear across his face. He had to get out of this. Hawkeye began to crawl up the hill. He was sobbing now, sinking into the gore.

A blinding pain tore through this image, and when he jerkily opened his eyes he stared into Margaret's frightened face.

She had slapped him, he realized, shocked.

Hawkeye noticed dully he was on the ground. On his knees. How appropriate. Margaret crouched next to him, staring in horror, and holding him tightly by the shoulders. He gasped, trying to catch his breath, and clumsily grasped her arms, gratefully feeling the warmth of her skin infuse his ice-cold body.

Hawkeye leaned forward, burying his head in her shoulder, trying to stop the tears stinging his eyelids. But, the moment his eyes closed a barrage of images overtook him once again with jolting clarity. He couldn't stop the dream from overtaking his consciousness, not anymore.

He stood on top of the hill. He'd made it, he thought a little surprised. He noticed with relief the blood had disappeared. When Hawkeye finally threw his exhausted body down upon the grass to catch his breath, he noticed with trepidation a crowd of tall figures standing a distance away.

As he moved closer, he realized he knew these people. They were his friends. People he'd known in med school, old friends from Maine, teachers he'd had in junior high.

And then Hawkeye saw Tommy Gillis. He gasped, nearly sprinting toward his friend. "Tommy! You're alive!" He joyfully put his arms around the man, tears forming in his eyes. Hawkeye pulled back to study him in disbelief, trying to talk through the thick lump of emotion in his throat, "How are you here? I can't believe this! I thought you were dead! I thought, I mean, I watched you die!" Tommy smiled warmly, grasping Hawkeye's shoulders with both hands affectionately before slowly moving away. Hawkeye tried to follow into the crowd, calling after his friend. But Tommy was gone.

He gasped awake once more. Hawkeye pulled violently away from Margaret and cried into his hands. Tommy had left him again. The memory of his friend's death continued to cut him deeply, though it was something he rarely spoke about to anyone. Even after all the time that had passed since he'd watched his friend's heart stop beating, Hawkeye could never completely dismiss the thought that he had failed him, that through some fault of his he'd let Tommy die. And now, it threatened to completely unravel him.

Why was this happening? He wasn't sure if he was talking out loud or in his head anymore.

He pressed his eyes into his hands, willing with every clenched muscle in his body against the return of the dream. He rocked back and forth slowly. The ground began to feel harder beneath him, more reassuring.

Hawkeye looked suddenly at Margaret. She sat a few feet away, an unreadable expression on her face. Something changed, though, when he fiercely locked his eyes with hers, and the blankness fell away, leaving a look of complete despair. When she stared helplessly back at him, he saw clearly how fractured she truly was.

As swiftly as he was falling downward, Margaret knew she couldn't help him, just as he knew it.

Hawkeye resented her for that. He felt it deeply in this moment, coursing through the hard muscles in his arms, his clenched hands, the rapid beating of his heart.

He resented her with everything inside him for sitting there and watching powerlessly. He resented her for being here in Korea, in this terrible place where he could never be happy. He wanted to hate everything about the war and he couldn't. Because she was there. And he hated her for it. He hated her for keeping him from forgetting everything about it when he left. He couldn't leave this war and never think about it again, now. Because he couldn't forget her. No matter how much he wanted to. And he hated that. He hated it. He would never be right, or healthy, or even ok. And neither would she. She could have been the one to pull him back, and he resented her for failing to overcome whatever it was that had already destroyed him.

And the worst part about all of this was, when Hawkeye looked into her eyes he knew she resented him right back. Because he'd somehow dragged her down with him. It was as if his failure to be okay had cemented her own. Funny how twisted his world was. Like maybe, if when she'd run into him tonight he hadn't been a mess she might've been alright too.

But he wasn't. He was falling fast and now, taking her with him. He felt guilty, and afraid, and tired. And he couldn't look at her anymore.

He drew a shuddering breath, half-expecting her to run away. Run away and leave me, he glared at her.

Leave me alone!

He realized with horror he'd just pronounced those words aloud, and knew immediately he didn't mean it. He didn't want to be alone. God, he didn't mean it.

Without warning, Margaret closed the space between them, clasping his face violently in her hands, crushing his mouth to hers. He inhaled sharply into her mouth, experiencing a mixture of surprise and intense relief. Hawkeye reacted quickly, fiercely pulling her down on top of him, feeling the full weight of her body press against him. Oh God, he moaned, though whether it was aloud or in his head he didn't know. He didn't care. Hawkeye forcefully clutched her closer to him, kissing Margaret harder and harder until it made him dizzy and the air around them thrummed in his ears.

He felt a familiar possessiveness in the way he grasped her body—as if somehow she was his in this moment. He couldn't control anything happening around them, but right now he could own her pleasure, the way she shivered in his arms, the softness of her flesh beneath his fingers. This thought impressed a new urgency onto his movements. And she met him fervently back. There was so much desperation, it was almost intoxicating. Every charged move they made was increasingly frantic, convulsive, something that had gone beyond their control. The extent to which they needed this was tragic. He knew it.

This was not a solution. Hawkeye felt a brief pang of guilt.

If he thought anything else, however, its memory was swiftly deteriorating with every brush of her hips on his.

He fought the need, the frenzied desire for a moment. He thought they should stop. He made a conscious decision to stop.

Then Margaret's hands went lower and blinding light flashed in front of his eyelids. Hawkeye decided stopping would have to wait until he could form words again. Margaret's hair spilled down around them. His eyes rolled back in his head.

Hawkeye couldn't halt the instantaneous onslaught of images flashing in his mind. But he also didn't care anymore. When Margaret frantically pulled his shirt over his head, then took off her own, his eyes no longer saw anything beyond the bright light bursting in increasing frequency in front of them. The contrasting warmth of her skin against his cool body was exquisite.

God, it was amazing to feel something again, anything replacing the aching, gnawing sensation that consumed him almost all the time now. The dream grew more distant with each passing moment, and was finally only a tiny, dulled knot in his belly. Every ragged breath he drew brought him closer to some kind of salvation, and he gladly gave in to the addictive sensations charging through his body without another thought.

Some time later, they lay spent, motionless on the ground. Hawkeye couldn't stop himself from falling asleep.

Hawkeye dejectedly continued to search for Tommy, but instead caught sight of another familiar face. But why was he with these people? This was different. He walked up to his father quickly, worried that he, too, would run away. "Dad?" Hawkeye inquired hopefully. Hawkeye threw his arms around him, trying to hold him as tightly as possible. His father nodded, gently placing a hand on his son's head. Hawkeye wanted to ask him a million questions, but before he could respond his father pulled away and was lost in the crowd. Hawkeye began to feel intensely that there was something wrong. Frustrated, he pushed angrily through the crowd. Suddenly, the throng of people parted, revealing a smaller group gathered a short distance away.

Some thing was wrong. This thought came from nowhere. It had become a silent chant, running over and over through his mind. So wrong.

This was the part of the dream that always abruptly stopped without actually ending, he remembered with startling clarity. He saw his friends from Korea, and when they left, there was only himself and the hooded figure standing at the grave.

But, he knew who it was now.

It was Margaret. She pulled the hood from her face. Hawkeye inhaled sharply, noticing how vividly her eyes shone through the gray fog hugging the world around them. She looked lovely. Margaret held his gaze, staring intensely at him. She stepped toward him, leaning to speak in his ear. Hawkeye froze when he heard her words. He went cold, gaping at Margaret in horror. She kissed him calmly on the forehead.

Everyone dies alone.

She pointed at the coffin. Hawkeye stood motionless, stunned, terrified by the words she'd just uttered, their resonance echoing painfully in his ears. But he knew she was right.

He had to go on.

With a last, pleading glance at Margaret's unmoving form he walked the final steps to stand beside the grave. In spite of everything he'd seen thus far, every horror he'd experienced, nothing could have prepared him for what was in the casket. For who was in the casket.

He expected to look at the peaceful form of his mother. He knew he had to say good-bye to her, he'd come to say good-bye. Tell your mother you love her, son. Say goodbye.

But this time, the scene had changed. The shock he initially felt turned to terror when he realized whose grave this was.

This time he saw himself.

Everyone dies alone. The words echoed in his ears. He heard someone screaming. They sounded far away.

He realized it was him.

That was his body in the coffin, now slowly lowering into the ground. The lid slammed shut, and he was inside. I'm alive! He screamed over and over. But no one heard him, because he was utterly alone.

Everyone had left him here. And the walls closed in around him.

Everyone dies alone.

Hawkeye painfully opened his eyes, and remained completely motionless. He felt numb. He choked back the tears suddenly burning his throat. No. He was not going to cry. Not anymore. The dream had finished.

The sun had begun to creep over the horizon, though Hawkeye still felt cold deeply within his body. But Margaret was warm. The calming warmth of her skin seeped into his own, reminding him he was awake. It reminded him he was alive. He closed his eyes, leaning his head back on the ground. He feared what the dream meant, what it was telling him. But he discovered he felt a little lighter, too. Margaret's hair brushed his face when the wind blew.

At some point earlier this morning he'd put his shirt on, he realized, feeling the familiar material move slightly in the breeze. The grass was soft beneath him.

He remembered getting dressed again now, glancing down at Margaret's sleeping form. And, before falling into a fitful sleep, he'd thrown his jacket over both of them. Now, keeping the jacket in place, he cradled her against his chest, slowly rising to his feet. She barely moved.

Standing there, holding Margaret in his arms, he knew they had to go back. He didn't feel dread, just a dull, throbbing resolution. The sun was coming up and they had to go back.

Hawkeye began to steadily make his way to camp. He felt calmer now, oddly peaceful, as if the morning's stillness had stamped his own features with its characteristics. The sky was a pale pink color, resembling a newly formed scar. A scar wide enough to mark the wounds of Korea, he reflected as he walked. Though still not big enough to cover his own.

Hawkeye knew with all the confidence he could muster he'd seen the dream through to its conclusion, and felt without doubt that it was over. Though its memory haunted him still, it was over. And that was something.

Margaret was frighteningly light in his arms. This worried him. As he carried her, he felt keenly how thin she'd become. It hurt to think about, but he didn't know what to do for her, so he just kept trudging on. He walked on the path deep in thought, trying not to feel the bones in her back. What was this thing, this darkness, this omnipresent shadow that weighted them down and carved deep lines around their eyes? A pain so expansive it swallowed even Margaret's staunch militarism. As he walked, he scanned the foliage around them, checking for snipers. But there weren't any. They were alone.

Hawkeye made good time getting back to camp, arriving just as the first few pale rays of sunshine glimmered over the distant mountains. His pace increased when he approached the housing area, more out of habit than an actual fear of someone discovering them.

He shifted Margaret in his arms to open the door of her tent and she mumbled something into his throat. He stopped to stroke her hair a moment before entering. She buried her face in his collarbone, clinging to his chest more tightly and murmuring again into his neck. He froze, hearing what she'd said. Hawkeye, don't cry.

Hawkeye felt like crying.

He pushed the door open, and gently lowered her sleeping form onto her cot, pulling the blanket up and tucking it in around her. He realized his jacket was still underneath her. Actually, he remembered, it wasn't even his coat. He didn't know whose it was! But he didn't want to take the chance he might wake her, and let it remain where it was. Oh well, whoever owned it could have his. Hawkeye sat on the edge of the cot, smoothing her hair and waiting to make sure she wasn't going to wake up.

He stared at her for a long time.

Margaret seemed more peaceful now, he noticed, the former darkness in her face evident only in the shadow lingering over her eyes. This made him feel better, like maybe he wasn't going insane, just a little lost. Like he might be ok. He once again felt the odd impression that he was somehow lighter.

Here in this place, not a day went by that Hawkeye didn't know that he was dying. The war made sure of that—that he be constantly reminded of his own, very frail mortality. Here, Hawkeye knew, he was dying very slowly, a little at a time.

But now, he thought, perhaps, it didn't matter.

And when Hawkeye turned to go with renewed resolve, he felt the beginning of something. Something he hadn't felt in a long time.

Maybe...there was hope.

Maybe not for him. No, Hawkeye didn't honestly know if he could bring himself back. Not anymore.

But he wouldn't let that happen to her.

Everyone dies alone, she'd told him in the dream. Very well. That might be his fate. But not for her.

And who knows, he thought, maybe, somehow, saving her might in the process save him, too.