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curlysfist · 9 days ago

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04. Bass Fugato

Coda

Synopsis: Eventually, the bile rises back from his throat, smears his teeth, and burns him whole. (tw suicidal ideation, unethical medical practices, curly’s misogynistic + trad awakening, manhandling, likely ooc curly. MINORS DNI.)

Word count: 2.5k

Chapter Navigation: [1] [2] [3] [4]

Notes: hehe. this is what i was building up to write... i love you misogynistic curly my beloved.

Call it an impulse, call it a consequence, or the price of free will.

Curly didn’t know what exactly called him to scale the abandoned parking lot; nor did he understand why he was so compelled to stand on the rooftop, feet planted on the very edge of it. It’s not like he wanted to die. He hadn’t a single suicidal bone in his body.

But he was curious, what stood between where he was, and the plummeting depths below. A conclusion to his lifetime of cowardice, probably. Likely something more, beyond the bleak loneliness of space.

You were at home, sleeping. He was rougher with you, in all the places he hadn’t before. You seemed to take it well, enjoy what was never in his nature.

Fuck. Just what did any of this mean? And why was he so compelled to find the answer to this stupid question? It was only a step and a short fall away. Maybe everything he’d wanted in his life would be there. His past would be meaningless.

But was it cowardly to abandon what he had now, or cowardly to forego a future possibility?

He closed his eyes, feeling the wind tug at him, daring him to let go. A part of him wanted to. But a deeper, quieter part whispered something else—stay. Not for you, not for love, not even for the hollow comfort of familiarity. Stay, because nothing else had worked, and maybe, just maybe, there was something left to try.

With a sharp exhale, Curly stepped back from the edge. All this will be a reliable end if that ache gets worse. It’s all it should ever be.

It’s as good a day as any could be.

He’d finished with what little he had to do early: went on a run, did some pumps that bit his muscles in all the right places, and made breakfast. He even cleaned up after himself. It was only 9 AM. Not much else to do.

Curly rolled his shoulders, feeling the pleasant ache settle in his muscles. For a fleeting moment, there was a quiet satisfaction in the routine, in the control of it. But the moment passed quickly, leaving him restless, an itch under his skin that had nowhere to go.

His feet carried him without thought, wandering through the apartment, past the things that were once his, now softened by your touch, your choices. He found himself outside your study, the door ajar just enough to peek inside.

He hesitated.

It wasn’t like he was snooping. Just looking.

The desk was cluttered, as it always was. Your laptop sat open, but it was the papers strewn across the surface that caught his eye.

His name. Over and over. Scattered across the desk like the pieces of a shattered mirror, each page imaged detailed pieces of himself to form a dirty, wounded reflection. Curly stepped in, his stomach twisting with a visceral unease. He reached for one of the papers, fingers brushing it like touching something dangerous, and scanned the words before his brain could keep up.

‘Unresolved attachment issues. Aversion to emotional vulnerability.’

His jaw tightened. He shuffled through the stack. Psychological assessments; evaluations of him.

‘Need for control rooted in a lack of foundational self-worth.’

‘Reluctance to assert needs or boundaries due to chronic validation-seeking behaviour.’

It was accurate. Too accurate. But as he read, that accuracy only made it worse. Every carefully worded observation, every neat, clinical summation of his entire fucking life reduced him to a collection of symptoms, carving away anything human until all that remained was a hollowed-out list of defects. His life—his essence—is compressed into bullet points and diagnoses.

A project. A broken thing to be analyzed, studied, fixed.

It didn’t say anything about the nights he stayed up with you, laughing at dumb movies. It didn’t mention how he still carried the lessons he learned from falling on his ass a thousand times, or the times he made people feel safe just by being around. None of that was here. Just deficits. Weaknesses.

‘Subject exhibits passive tendencies that indicate a deep-seated need for external guidance.’

Subject. Subject.

His grip tightened on the paper, fingers curling so tight the edges crumpled. Is that all he was to you? A case study? A puzzle you were piecing together in your spare time?

His eyes landed on another section; this one made his stomach twist.

‘Potential paths for improvement: Encourage assertive behaviour within a structured environment to counteract learned helplessness.’

Learned helplessness. Fuck.

His breathing grew uneven, heat rising to his face. Is this what you thought of him? That he was just some helpless thing trailing in your shadow, waiting for you to guide him to salvation? His fists clenched at his sides, muscles twitching with restrained anger.

And then, there it was: the final blow.

A note, scrawled in the margins, like an afterthought.

‘Sometimes I think he doesn't even know what he wants. Maybe he never has.’

Curly’s heart slammed against his ribs. He swallowed the lump in his throat, but it did nothing to smother the sick, simmering feeling inside him.

This wasn’t just disregard. This was everything. Every ounce of himself, every scrap of pride and autonomy he had left, compressed down into a neat little file for your convenience.

He let the papers fall from his hand, his pulse a steady, pounding drum in his ears.

You thought he didn’t know what he wanted?

Curly’s lips curled into a humorless smile, something dark and bitter rising inside him.

He stood there for a long moment, the papers scattered at his feet like the remnants of something he should have seen coming. His hands flexed and curled at his sides, itching for something—anything—to ground himself. But there was nothing. Just the quiet hum of your study, the soft scent of your perfume lingering in the air, and the sharp, suffocating realization that you’d been dissecting him like some kind of fucking specimen.

He exhaled sharply through his nose, running a hand down his face.

Alright. Fine.

He turned and left the room without a sound, but each step felt heavier than the last. He could feel the tension coiling inside him, wrapping tight around his chest like a wire about to snap. Every second, every breath, the weight of it pressed harder.

By the time he found you in the living room, curled up on the couch with a book in your hands, he wasn’t even sure what he was going to say. But it didn’t matter, because the second you looked up at him, eyes soft and warm like you hadn’t just shattered something inside him, it all came rushing out.

“Is that what I am to you?” His voice was low, rough, edged with something. “A fucking case study?”

Your brows knit together in confusion. “What?”

Curly’s jaw tightened, and he took a slow, measured step forward. “Don’t do that.” His voice was sharper now. “Don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about.”

You blinked at him, setting the book down. “Curly, what—”

“I saw them.” His words cut through your sentence, and the shift in his tone made your lips part slightly in surprise. He scoffed, running a hand through his hair. “The psych evaluations. My life—my mind—spread out like some kind of fucking school project.” He took another step forward, and this time you leaned back slightly. “Is that what I am to you?”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out at first. When you finally spoke, it was quiet, careful. “Curly, it’s not like that.”

He let out a breathless, bitter laugh. “Then what the hell is it like?”

You hesitated, and that hesitation was enough. It was all he needed. His patience, his restraint—whatever fragile thing had been holding him together—shattered in an instant.

Before you could react, he was on you, hands gripping the arms of the couch on either side of you, caging you in. His face was inches from yours, his breathing heavy, controlled, but his eyes—his eyes were something else entirely.

“You think you get to decide what I need? What’s best for me?” His voice was a low, dangerous rasp, the weight of it pressing down on you like a physical force. “You think I don’t know myself well enough, so you had to do it for me?”

Your lips parted in protest, but he cut you off again, his voice rising just enough to make your breath hitch.

“No. Not this time.” His grip on the couch tightened, knuckles white. “I’m done letting you make the calls. I’m done being your goddamn… pet project.” He leaned in closer, his lips almost brushing yours, but there was no tenderness in it—just the sharp, electric tension that had been building for too long. “If you want to stay in my life, you do it my way. Do you hear me?”

Your breath trembled against his skin, and for the first time in a long time, he saw something other than certainty in your eyes. Doubt.

Good.

After a moment, your fingers hesitantly found his shirt, grasping it tightly as your face pressed itself into his neck. He doesn’t waver, and he doesn’t breathe a word, even when your hands tremble, and dampness smears the skin of his neck.

He lets you breathe for a moment, a small mercy he allows, before sitting on the couch and dragging you right onto his lap. His instincts war against the rational part of his mind, leading to a palpable stiffness in his limbs as he struggles to not hold you too tight. For all your indifference and unwavering nature, you always have bruised so easily.

But was it wrong that everything felt so fucking right, seeing you tremble on his lap with the uncertainty that plagued him, weighing on your shoulders?

Thumbing your cheek with a calloused thumb, coaxing you to shamefully meet his gaze, he spoke quietly.

“You don’t respect me.”

“I—I do—”

“You don’t do this to a man you respect.”

“I just wanted to help you.”

“You didn’t. You made everything worse,” he muttered, pinching your cheek gently while the other hand settled on your hip, squeezing the flesh. You don’t push at him, instead shifting your hips to sit more comfortably on his lap, straddling his thighs.

Curly’s hand on your hip, though tense, wasn’t threatening anymore. It felt like an anchor, like he was trying to keep both of you from spiraling into something neither of you could come back from. His fingers dug into your skin, but the pressure was different now, not out of anger, but as if he was grounding himself—and you.

He leaned closer, his breath warm against your cheek, his voice a quiet command. “Just stop talking.” His words weren’t laced with venom, but with something harder—something like control. He’d taken the papers, the clinical assessments, the theories, and thrown them out the window. His being isn’t a collection of issues.

“You think you’re the one who’s been hurt in this, don’t you?” Curly’s voice was low, steady

You opened your mouth, but he cut you off, palm pressing to your lips.

“You’ve been so busy trying to make everything right that you’ve lost track of what really matters,” he continued, his voice rough but calm, measured. “What matters is us. And you don’t get to decide what that looks like.

“I want kids. I want a small home near the woods. Away from the noise of this stupid fucking city. We’ll get married, we’ll pack our shit, and we’ll leave. On my dime.”

Your head bows, nose brushing against the stubble of his jaw. A pause, and then you spoke.

“You’re serious?” The words barely made it out, caught somewhere between disbelief and something darker you didn’t want to name. You were so close now, so tangled in the warmth of his presence that it was hard to tell where you ended and he began.

“When have you ever known me to joke about something like this?” His voice was calm. Calmer than the turmoil in your mind.

You leaned back just enough to look at him, your eyes searching his face for cracks—some sign that he wasn’t as steady as he seemed. But his expression was unyielding.

“Curly,” you began, your voice softer than you intended, “this isn’t something you just decide on a whim. People don’t—”

He cut you off, his head tilting as if he were observing something small and fragile. “People don’t what? Make decisions for themselves? Take control of their own lives?” His lips quirked, not quite a smile. “Sounds exhausting, being the one holding the reins all the time. Maybe you should try letting go.”

“That’s not what I meant.” The words rushed out, defensive, but they felt hollow even as you said them.

He let out a quiet laugh, low and bitter, his gaze locking onto yours. “Of course not. You never mean anything, do you? You just... guide. Shape. Mold. All for my own good though, right?”

“Don’t twist this,” you snapped, though your voice trembled. “I’ve always been trying to help you.”

“Help?” He scoffs softly, his hand slithering to cup the back of your neck, then gently tugging your hair, goading you to look at him. It was hard to. “You mean help me become the version of me that fits your description? That’s not help.”

You opened your mouth, but no words came. There was something about the way he was looking at you now that froze the thoughts in your mind before you could grab hold of them.

“I let you steer for years,” he said, voice steady but cutting. “Told myself it was safer that way, easier. But letting someone else lead? It’s never where you need to go. It’s always where they think you should be."

“I didn’t—”

“Didn’t what?” He leaned in, close enough that his breath ghosted over your skin, close enough that his presence felt overwhelming. “Didn’t mean to strip me down piece by piece? Didn’t mean to leave me feeling like nothing I do is ever enough?”

“That’s not fair,” you whispered, but the words carried no weight.

“No,” he said, his voice dropping to a dangerous softness. “It’s not. But fair doesn’t matter, does it?”

The air between you felt too heavy, oppressive, and you realized too late that he wasn’t waiting for a response. He wasn’t asking.

“Curly—”

“No. Enough. I’m sick of your voice. I made myself clear. Once I get some things put together, we’ll start preparing for a baby and move into the countryside.”

Again, you opened your mouth to speak, but he tugged your hair again, a little rougher.

“Enough.”

You fall quiet.

“...Good. Good girl,” he sighs, softening the slightest bit, cupping your jaw, fingers digging to the soft of your cheek. “I get that in your field, drugging your patients is the key to happiness. I wouldn’t be surprised if you eventually would’ve tried to prescribe me something.

“...”

“Hundreds of years, societies found happiness in their homestead. The answer doesn’t need to be some bullshit established just a couple of decades ago. So be quiet, and I’ll bring us somewhere peaceful. Spiritually and physically, because God help me, I’m done with this shit.”

A pause. You contemplate.

Then, with uncertainty, you nod quietly. With a huff of a laugh, he kisses your forehead.

“I knew you’d understand. You’ve always been smart.”

#faith.txt #so much dashes. old habits die hard i fear #writing this brought me back to my ao3 era... a sephiroth x reader thing #i think it was 50k words?#the dashes. golly gee. i love a good em dash #mouthwashing x reader #curly mouthwashing x reader #curly x reader

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hballegro · 6 months ago

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i have more conspiracies about MASH that may or may not be true, but ive decided they are. they also just might have been explained, but im dumb, and cant remember. heres your sequel.

in 7x3 where hawkeye tackles bj, bj goes "AAH!' and hawkeye says 'WRONG! THAT STARTS WITH AN H!'. this is because mike farrell's line was 'hey!' but due to the force and drama of the scene, just Yelped instead.

All the dogs that turned up that never appeared again [like the one bj and hawk "ate" when they were trying to scare a visitor, dogs seen in 1 shot, etc] were just dogs that the production crew/cast owned and wanted to bring to work/volunteered their animal for acting duty

in the handful if scenes where hawkeye is actually knitting [and not using the red yarn, for the reason given in the previous edition], hes making a blankie for erin. [co-credit my sibling]

klinger got his ears pierced during the course of the show, starting with clearly just clip-ons and then later declares he doesnt want his ears to close up. some say continuity error, I say commitment (and also it would probably be easier to find real earrings instead of clip-ons)

in s7e2 Peace on Us, no one told bill christopher to tie that red streamer around his neck, he just thought it would be silly

in s7e2 Peace on Us, again, no one told alan alda to drive the jeep back to camp with his leg up like that. he just knows the character well enough to make that call. which he's correct about

the scar on hawkeye's lip was caused by a fishhook in his youth. got called Troutboy a long time afterward because of it.

bj is a vaseline girlie and takes good care of his hair as well.

hawkeye sniffs food because, having grown up partly during the depression, eating spoiled food was a real risk, so giving it a good ol' sniff-test was a given

fr mulcahy cares deeply about his appearance and engages in more grooming activities than any other guy in camp [the shower cap, always looking perfect, owning gardening gloves, manicured hands and feet, etc]. he even irons his stole on a bi-weekly basis and launders his clerical collars

hawkeye's issues with people leaving and not saying goodbye began with his mother after she passed, since his father didnt want him to worry

on nights where charles goes to bed after the other two, he will occasionally clean up a little bit. this contributes to why he's so pissed in 'Pressure Points'- he's been doing his own cleaning and some of theirs without them noticing or caring.

once again these are all just things that came to mind while watching, i didnt think too hard on them. the only one 'researched' on was the food sniffing, solely because i needed to do Year Math lol

#i mean that blankie one with my WHOLE HEART #mash #m*a*s*h #mash 4077 #mashblogging #mashblr #hawkeye pierce #charles emerson winchester iii #bj hunnicutt #father mulcahy #mike farrell #alan alda #william christopher #like seriously ive thought abt it a long time. why else would we never see it actually used. he made that little girl a blankie #the bj conspiracy abt vaseline is just because i spent a really long time having to stare @ his mouth and went 'he takes care of this thing #same goes for his hair honestly just 'wow he takes care of this stuff huh'#i mean he canonically has a mustache comb so this isnt that far beyond #the sniffing one was partly inspired by me having specifically an egg-sniffing habit because once i bit into a spoiled boiled egg #and now always have to check even if i JUST boiled em #shoutout fr mulcahy for refusing to slack on serving not only the lord but in general #also the yelp one took 2 seconds of thought. just 'wh. he said AAH. why are you saying 'h''#then i realized he was prolly supposed to say 'ahhh! hey! >:['#but when you are tackled by the wet pool noodle man #it is hard to remember your lines #edited just to highlight the blankie one further im being so serious about that one guys

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