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crack_van2008-12-31 06:54 pm
hobsonphile.livejournal.com) wrote in crack_van2008-12-31 06:54 pm
The Dawn Don't Rescue Me No More by Epigone
Fandom: M*A*S*H
Pairing: None.
Length: 14,000+ words
Rating: PG-13
Author on LJ:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
likethesun2
Author Website: Finishing the Hat
Why this must be read:
Is it kindness or cruelty to restore a painful memory that has been suppressed? Through Sidney - and the well-developed original characters who populate his psychiatric ward - Epigone explores all the ambiguities inherent in this question - and walks away with no easy answers. If you want richly drawn finale-fic, this is the story for you.
“How goes it?” asked Caleb, a little wary.
Sidney smiled for his sake. “Trying to get Fleming out of the clutches of the medical board.”
Caleb came in, closed the door behind him, and sat in the chair on the other side of the desk.
“If you say unfit for duty, he’s back in CONUS like that.” Caleb snapped his fingers. “You know that. That’s not what’s bothering you.”
“Thanks for the diagnosis,” said Sidney. He sighed and gestured at the sheaf of forms. “Just a mid-war crisis, I guess. I keep worrying that I’m doing him a disservice, trying to help him back to sanity in a world insane enough to allow this kind of war. Isn’t that just making him maladjusted? Am I encouraging a much more dangerous delusion? Wouldn’t he be happier—more sheltered—believing himself to be a man who escaped the war in 1951? What do those thoughts mean, Doctor?”
Caleb looked at him, graciously ignoring the misdirected anger. “I think it means that if you weren’t my CO, I’d order you to take some R&R.”
“Privilege of rank,” said Sidney. “I’m sorry. But I’m serious, Caleb. It worries me.”
“You’re talking about sending him back to 42nd Street, not to Hill 255,” said Caleb. “I understand—you know I understand the characteristic conflict here. Medicine tells us to make them saner; the Army tells us make them voluntarily go back to a war zone. I’m sure your Captain Pierce knows all about that dilemma.” Sidney shifted in his chair. He didn’t want to talk about Hawkeye. He went to sleep thinking about Hawkeye, dreamed of their conversations, and woke up to yet another session. “But for God’s sake, Sid, you get to be the good guy here, so why don’t you savor it? All right, you didn’t fix him all the way. But you’re making it so that someone else can, back in the real world.”
“Ah,” said Sidney, smiling at a private joke. “Back in the world without war.”
As he said it he had a fleeting, incongruous memory of Captain Chandler, two years ago at the 4077th. During Chandler’s stay, post-op was abuzz with rumors and speculation about him. Whenever Sidney joined in, he found himself startled by a sense that he was speaking in a different dialect. When he said the words—“Jesus Christ,” our patient Jesus Christ—he knew that they didn’t mean quite the same thing to him as they did to everyone else. It had nothing to do with conscious belief (certainly Hawkeye, for one, had no definable faith); it was all reflex, childhood context. The world without war, Jesus Christ: stories that other people believed. Good Jew that he was, Sidney had his doubts that anyone was coming to save them.
“Do you know what ‘Caleb’ means?” Sidney asked.
Caleb was looking at him strangely. He wondered how long he’d been silent, smiling at the punch line.
“No idea,” said Caleb. “My parents thought I was going to be a girl, so I was supposed to be Catherine. ‘Caleb’ was a last-minute choice in the delivery room.”
“It’s from the Hebrew,” Sidney said. “Meaning ‘faithful.’ It suits you.”
“What does ‘Sidney’ mean?” asked Caleb, willfully dense.
“I have no idea,” said Sidney. “Which suits me.”
Resignedly, he looked down at the medical-board form. After a moment, he wrote “Separation recommended” on the crucial line and signed his name.
“There it is,” he said. “You think they’ll give him a ticker-tape parade?”
Caleb sighed. “What you’re doing for Fleming—it’s a gift. You’ve started giving him back his life, his real life. And now you’re sending him home.”
Sidney considered the form, its incoherent military jargon and its meaningless promises. He tried to imagine Fleming in a parade, but all he could envision were the years of treatment, the laborious climb back to an awareness that could bring no comfort.
“I know,” said Sidney. “It’s just that before I got my hands on him, he’d already sent himself home. Better than I ever could.”
The Dawn Don't Rescue Me No More
Pairing: None.
Length: 14,000+ words
Rating: PG-13
Author on LJ:
likethesun2Author Website: Finishing the Hat
Why this must be read:
Is it kindness or cruelty to restore a painful memory that has been suppressed? Through Sidney - and the well-developed original characters who populate his psychiatric ward - Epigone explores all the ambiguities inherent in this question - and walks away with no easy answers. If you want richly drawn finale-fic, this is the story for you.
“How goes it?” asked Caleb, a little wary.
Sidney smiled for his sake. “Trying to get Fleming out of the clutches of the medical board.”
Caleb came in, closed the door behind him, and sat in the chair on the other side of the desk.
“If you say unfit for duty, he’s back in CONUS like that.” Caleb snapped his fingers. “You know that. That’s not what’s bothering you.”
“Thanks for the diagnosis,” said Sidney. He sighed and gestured at the sheaf of forms. “Just a mid-war crisis, I guess. I keep worrying that I’m doing him a disservice, trying to help him back to sanity in a world insane enough to allow this kind of war. Isn’t that just making him maladjusted? Am I encouraging a much more dangerous delusion? Wouldn’t he be happier—more sheltered—believing himself to be a man who escaped the war in 1951? What do those thoughts mean, Doctor?”
Caleb looked at him, graciously ignoring the misdirected anger. “I think it means that if you weren’t my CO, I’d order you to take some R&R.”
“Privilege of rank,” said Sidney. “I’m sorry. But I’m serious, Caleb. It worries me.”
“You’re talking about sending him back to 42nd Street, not to Hill 255,” said Caleb. “I understand—you know I understand the characteristic conflict here. Medicine tells us to make them saner; the Army tells us make them voluntarily go back to a war zone. I’m sure your Captain Pierce knows all about that dilemma.” Sidney shifted in his chair. He didn’t want to talk about Hawkeye. He went to sleep thinking about Hawkeye, dreamed of their conversations, and woke up to yet another session. “But for God’s sake, Sid, you get to be the good guy here, so why don’t you savor it? All right, you didn’t fix him all the way. But you’re making it so that someone else can, back in the real world.”
“Ah,” said Sidney, smiling at a private joke. “Back in the world without war.”
As he said it he had a fleeting, incongruous memory of Captain Chandler, two years ago at the 4077th. During Chandler’s stay, post-op was abuzz with rumors and speculation about him. Whenever Sidney joined in, he found himself startled by a sense that he was speaking in a different dialect. When he said the words—“Jesus Christ,” our patient Jesus Christ—he knew that they didn’t mean quite the same thing to him as they did to everyone else. It had nothing to do with conscious belief (certainly Hawkeye, for one, had no definable faith); it was all reflex, childhood context. The world without war, Jesus Christ: stories that other people believed. Good Jew that he was, Sidney had his doubts that anyone was coming to save them.
“Do you know what ‘Caleb’ means?” Sidney asked.
Caleb was looking at him strangely. He wondered how long he’d been silent, smiling at the punch line.
“No idea,” said Caleb. “My parents thought I was going to be a girl, so I was supposed to be Catherine. ‘Caleb’ was a last-minute choice in the delivery room.”
“It’s from the Hebrew,” Sidney said. “Meaning ‘faithful.’ It suits you.”
“What does ‘Sidney’ mean?” asked Caleb, willfully dense.
“I have no idea,” said Sidney. “Which suits me.”
Resignedly, he looked down at the medical-board form. After a moment, he wrote “Separation recommended” on the crucial line and signed his name.
“There it is,” he said. “You think they’ll give him a ticker-tape parade?”
Caleb sighed. “What you’re doing for Fleming—it’s a gift. You’ve started giving him back his life, his real life. And now you’re sending him home.”
Sidney considered the form, its incoherent military jargon and its meaningless promises. He tried to imagine Fleming in a parade, but all he could envision were the years of treatment, the laborious climb back to an awareness that could bring no comfort.
“I know,” said Sidney. “It’s just that before I got my hands on him, he’d already sent himself home. Better than I ever could.”
The Dawn Don't Rescue Me No More
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