Sara (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
scripted_sra) wrote2009-03-02 11:57 pm
scripted_sra) wrote2009-03-02 11:57 pm
Entry tags:
M*A*S*H | Lies | PG | Gen
Title: Lies
Fandom: M*A*S*H
Rating: PG
Pairing: None.
Summary: The last time Charles lied is not as he suspected.
Word Count: 796
Disclaimer: All copyrighted material referred to in this work, and the characters, settings, and events thereof, are the properties of their respective owners. This work is not created for profit and constitutes fair use.
A/N: Has been edited slightly from its original version. Originally written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
hashbash, a M*A*S*H fiction contest. Won first place.
“I am a Winchester, Pierce. We adapt to any situation. Now, I am fine. Please, leave me be.”
Charles remembered his last lie—it had been to his annoying buffoon of a tent mate, Pierce. The man didn’t know how to mind his own business at all. Really, a little compassion every now and then was one thing, but Pierce had endless quantities of the emotion. It was irritating, especially when he simply wanted to be left alone.
It was just after one of those horrendously long sessions in OR, where everyone had lost a patient or two, no one was free from the saddened, defeated look in their eyes, and everyone’s nerves were on high alert. Pierce had been attempting to get him to “open up” to him and Hunnicutt, to make himself “feel better.” Charles nearly snorted at this—how preposterous!
Yes, it was true that he wasn’t ‘fine’, per se, but Winchesters did not sit around in old, ratty army tents sharing their feelings with others while drinking alcohol that would be better suited as lighter fluid. A Winchester put on soft music, sat next to a warm fire, closed his eyes, had a maid bring him some cognac, and let the stress fade away slowly, like the sunlight through a window, as the sun set.
As Korea was—irritatingly enough—lacking both fireplaces and maids, Charles supposed he would have to make do with his music and his cognac. It wasn’t perfect—indeed not, as perfect included him back in Boston—but it would do, he thought, closing his eyes, preparing to relax.
The relaxation never came, no matter how much he wished for it. All that swam through Charles’ mind were the choppers and the blood and the boys. All that was there were the images and his words to Pierce, haunting him, “Now, I am fine.”
His eyes snapped open and he glared at Pierce’s cot. No one else was in the tent, and he couldn’t exactly glare at his semi-conscious state as much as he would have liked to. This wasn’t right or normal. He should be relaxing now, letting the war fade into the back of his mind, no longer the thing to worry about at the moment.
Charles sighed. He wasn’t fine, but Winchesters did adapt—clearly he would get over this. Of course he would. Charles nodded to himself and took another drink. Yes, he’d succeed in relaxing—he was being foolish to think that he wouldn’t. How had he doubted himself?
He smiled, took another drink, and closed his eyes again, expecting to actually relax this time. He expected for the stress to melt away or drip off of him, slowly, as always, and for everything to be okay again. He was sure that this would work. It had to.
He heard the shells and the screams, this time. He saw his patient die on the table in front of him, unable to save the young man. His eyes shot open again, his last lie still ringing in his ears, “I am a Winchester, Pierce. We adapt to any situation.”
Charles frowned and finished off his glass, quickly pouring himself another. Really now, this was getting ridiculous. He should be relaxing! He’d finally been left alone—which, as he judged by the steadily setting sun outside, wouldn’t last for much longer—to listen to his music and to drink his alcohol, and the damned war was invading it! It was invading his time!
Charles sighed again and shook his head--he was giving the war human characteristics. Clearly something was not right here. He had to shake this off and get back to normal before either Pierce or Hunnicutt or both returned from wherever they were and whoever they were annoying. He did not need to add “embarrassment” to his list of his problems.
Shutting his eyes again, he tried to completely let go. It almost worked. The sounds and sights of the war invaded his mind together, this time, his entire last lie still there, as if it and the war were connected, intermixed. As if one couldn’t exist without the other. “I am a Winchester, Pierce. We adapt to any situation. Now, I am fine. Please, leave me be.”
Charles' eyes opened slowly, this time, in realization. Suddenly, he knew why he wasn’t able to relax, why his mind kept flashing images and sounds he’d rather forget, and why his last lie to Pierce kept repeating incessantly, as though it were something he’d recorded, and the player was broken. Suddenly, it all made sense, and he wasn’t sure how comfortable he was with that.
He hadn’t realized it, but his last lie hadn’t been to Pierce at all.
It had been to himself.
Fandom: M*A*S*H
Rating: PG
Pairing: None.
Summary: The last time Charles lied is not as he suspected.
Word Count: 796
Disclaimer: All copyrighted material referred to in this work, and the characters, settings, and events thereof, are the properties of their respective owners. This work is not created for profit and constitutes fair use.
A/N: Has been edited slightly from its original version. Originally written for
hashbash, a M*A*S*H fiction contest. Won first place.“I am a Winchester, Pierce. We adapt to any situation. Now, I am fine. Please, leave me be.”
Charles remembered his last lie—it had been to his annoying buffoon of a tent mate, Pierce. The man didn’t know how to mind his own business at all. Really, a little compassion every now and then was one thing, but Pierce had endless quantities of the emotion. It was irritating, especially when he simply wanted to be left alone.
It was just after one of those horrendously long sessions in OR, where everyone had lost a patient or two, no one was free from the saddened, defeated look in their eyes, and everyone’s nerves were on high alert. Pierce had been attempting to get him to “open up” to him and Hunnicutt, to make himself “feel better.” Charles nearly snorted at this—how preposterous!
Yes, it was true that he wasn’t ‘fine’, per se, but Winchesters did not sit around in old, ratty army tents sharing their feelings with others while drinking alcohol that would be better suited as lighter fluid. A Winchester put on soft music, sat next to a warm fire, closed his eyes, had a maid bring him some cognac, and let the stress fade away slowly, like the sunlight through a window, as the sun set.
As Korea was—irritatingly enough—lacking both fireplaces and maids, Charles supposed he would have to make do with his music and his cognac. It wasn’t perfect—indeed not, as perfect included him back in Boston—but it would do, he thought, closing his eyes, preparing to relax.
The relaxation never came, no matter how much he wished for it. All that swam through Charles’ mind were the choppers and the blood and the boys. All that was there were the images and his words to Pierce, haunting him, “Now, I am fine.”
His eyes snapped open and he glared at Pierce’s cot. No one else was in the tent, and he couldn’t exactly glare at his semi-conscious state as much as he would have liked to. This wasn’t right or normal. He should be relaxing now, letting the war fade into the back of his mind, no longer the thing to worry about at the moment.
Charles sighed. He wasn’t fine, but Winchesters did adapt—clearly he would get over this. Of course he would. Charles nodded to himself and took another drink. Yes, he’d succeed in relaxing—he was being foolish to think that he wouldn’t. How had he doubted himself?
He smiled, took another drink, and closed his eyes again, expecting to actually relax this time. He expected for the stress to melt away or drip off of him, slowly, as always, and for everything to be okay again. He was sure that this would work. It had to.
He heard the shells and the screams, this time. He saw his patient die on the table in front of him, unable to save the young man. His eyes shot open again, his last lie still ringing in his ears, “I am a Winchester, Pierce. We adapt to any situation.”
Charles frowned and finished off his glass, quickly pouring himself another. Really now, this was getting ridiculous. He should be relaxing! He’d finally been left alone—which, as he judged by the steadily setting sun outside, wouldn’t last for much longer—to listen to his music and to drink his alcohol, and the damned war was invading it! It was invading his time!
Charles sighed again and shook his head--he was giving the war human characteristics. Clearly something was not right here. He had to shake this off and get back to normal before either Pierce or Hunnicutt or both returned from wherever they were and whoever they were annoying. He did not need to add “embarrassment” to his list of his problems.
Shutting his eyes again, he tried to completely let go. It almost worked. The sounds and sights of the war invaded his mind together, this time, his entire last lie still there, as if it and the war were connected, intermixed. As if one couldn’t exist without the other. “I am a Winchester, Pierce. We adapt to any situation. Now, I am fine. Please, leave me be.”
Charles' eyes opened slowly, this time, in realization. Suddenly, he knew why he wasn’t able to relax, why his mind kept flashing images and sounds he’d rather forget, and why his last lie to Pierce kept repeating incessantly, as though it were something he’d recorded, and the player was broken. Suddenly, it all made sense, and he wasn’t sure how comfortable he was with that.
He hadn’t realized it, but his last lie hadn’t been to Pierce at all.
It had been to himself.