It will be 78 degrees and sunny his first Christmas back, the white light blinding him as it reflects off a particularly shiny tree ornament.
Erin will be taller than he expected, all arms and legs, and she will not know him. He will not know her, not really, not like he wants. When he kisses his wife, she will taste saltier than his memories.
Small things, big things. Everything different than it was in his dreams.
He will drink a martini before dinner, and four more after dessert. Peg will look at him funny, will ask if he should perhaps slow down. It will all be very passive-aggressive.
He will remind himself that Hawkeye is the alcoholic, not him.
The world will move around him, independent of him, and it will not touch him. Everything buffered by a hazy white cloud of gin and vermouth. Everything reflected in the shiny glass ball. He will not care.
Nothing will touch him.
fin and done and. oh, this does feel good.
[once more into the fray]