Chapter Text
A mustache.
He could pull it off.
Probably.
Granted, he’d never tried. But it could work.
Presumably.
So very different. And yet maybe this was exactly the thing he needed to do. Scrubbing a finger over the beginning of stubbly growth under his nose, B.J. couldn’t help but smile.
A mustache.
It was already noticeable on his tanned face; over a week’s worth of stubble disappearing under the smooth strokes of his razor left his cheeks and jaw smooth and his upper lip with the beginnings of what would assuredly be an impressive mustache. B.J. began to stow away his toiletries with practiced precision, humming the Sinatra tune Hawkeye had been singing the night before under his breath. He’d decided to do some sleuthing before his roommate rose from his hungover slumber, some checking of facts and confirmation of assumptions. Sources like Klinger, who he could persuade with additional funds for his new white pumps, and Radar, who he could bribe with free check-ups for his animals, would easily be able to verify if Trapper John had ever worn a mustache. Because B.J. was almost certain the surgeon hadn’t. And if he did…well, a quick swipe of his razor would erase this wild and unthought out idea faster than Hawkeye could down a glassful of gin.
This insane “plan” of his would all but guarantee a night like before would never happen again. While not a permanent solution, B.J. felt it was the best he could do. It was a solution that hopefully ensured there would be no doubt, no hint, no possibility, that Hawkeye would once again mistake him for Trapper. And it represented a tiny piece of his life that he was in control of, when every other assured thing and certainty seemed to be careening blindly, haphazardly off the rails. B.J. knew Hawkeye had been drunk when he’d thought he was Trapper. He knew it with every fiber of his being, from the tips of his ears down to his toes. Hawkeye had called him Trapper, but he hadn’t meant it.
And yet…there was a part of him…a heart-wrenching, unthinkable part of him…that almost envied the other man. Envied him. Being mistaken for Trapper wounded him deeper than he believed possible, but was that drunken confession the nearest B.J. would ever get to being close to Hawkeye?
The closeness that he unconsolably craved, desired, needed.
The closeness he could only imagine was shared between the two surgeons before he arrived?
Jealousy clawed at his throat, filling his mouth with a bitterness that he couldn’t swallow. B.J. released a shaky breath, averting his eyes from the conflicted man reflected in the mirror.
Remember, you’re supposed to be ignoring your feelings. Until yesterday, you’d successfully ignored the fact that you tumbled head over Converse for Hawkeye Pierce from the first moment you laid your eyes on him. Nothing really has changed. Sure, he might have been close to Trapper before you got here. Sure, it might have been that kind of close. But nothing is certain. Nothing is guaranteed. Nothing has changed.
So, this one-man show in self-loathing that you’re trying to be the star of? This insanity of being disordered and disconcerted with envy over a Boston-based surgeon you’ve never met?
Stop it. Just stop.
And, the fact that you cannot help but be captivated by your intoxicatingly beautiful and unattainable roommate? That you know this is not some fleeting emotion, some search for release of a primal urge, a meaningless fascination…that it’s something more?
Well. Guess what? Ignore the fuck out of it.
Repeat after me: Together but not together. Close but not close.
B.J. blinked slowly. He could still read the conflicted uncertainty lining his face, furrowing his brow, creasing his forehead, tightening his jaw.
Nothing’s happened. This is all just in your head. Ignore it.
That line repeated on an endless loop as he traced a finger across the stubble beneath his nose. He struggled not to focus on the gold band on his left hand, reflecting brightly back at him in the mirror. It felt heavy, a weight he was so used to that it never occurred to him to notice it before; but now that he was thinking about it—paying attention to the smoothness of the metal, the balance of it on his finger—he couldn’t ignore that.
Funny, the things he wanted to ignore and the things he no longer could. B.J. did his best not to dwell on the implications of that thought and resisted the urge to fiddle with his ring.
Nothing’s happened. This is all just in your head. Ignore it.
Ignore the severe lack of rhyme or reason, the nonsensical nature of your feelings.
Ignore the moral conundrum corner you’ve painted yourself into.
Ignore how you can’t tie a neat little ribbon around your heart and explain the way you feel about Hawkeye...
It was almost as wild and unpredictable and inexplicable as his decision to grow a mustache. Labeling how he felt about his best friend was a mess he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to dive into, and it was a mess he wasn’t entirely sure he could explicitly define.
God, how did Hawkeye do this to me?
With all the undeniable pull of an undertow, B.J. found his gaze floating once again over to the sleeping form of his roommate.
Hawkeye was a class act in intoxicated mischief, as sweet and devilish as sin, a walking, talking mess in size ten feet. The suave surgeon confounded him and moved him, crash landing into his life and sending shockwaves off in every direction. How B.J. felt when he was near him was like a jolt of electricity; he was inexplicably drawn by that tousled black hair tinged with grey, that bombastic laugh, those expressive cerulean eyes, and that smile that seemed to be handmade by God himself.
The message his heart was sending him, one that his head couldn’t ignore and didn’t approve of, was one of hope; that someday he’d be as close with Hawkeye as Hawkeye had been with Trapper. Because when the chips were down and his hand dealt, B.J. didn’t think he was reading too far into Hawkeye’s flirtations and actions. He hoped there was, well he needed there to be, something beneath that irresistible smile, behind those intoxicating eyes, and under the guise of that alcohol drenched entertainer.
Maybe, just maybe, they could be close.
He was irrevocably tangled up, head-over-heels enraptured with Hawkeye Pierce. The same way that a catchy song lyric makes you smile, an exquisite piece of art moves you to tears, or how words from a heart-wrenching poem seem to open your eyes to the painful beauty around you.
As much as he wanted to indulge these fantasies, he knew that he had to stick to his plan.
Nothing’s happened. This is all just in your head. Ignore it-
“Gentlemen! And I use that term…loosely.”
Charles waltzed into the Swamp, coffee in hand and nose unsurprisingly upturned, interrupting B.J.’s thoughts. Snapping his gaze away from Hawkeye’s direction, the Californian threw the newly-arrived surgeon a tight smile.
“Morning, Charles.”
The man in question threw a dismissive wave in response. Taking a sip of his coffee, Charles observed Hawkeye’s present state with a scathing scoff.
“Ah, I see the urchin is still asleep. Not that I am surprised, mind you, with the amount he drank last night. He is still breathing, hmm?”
B.J. rolled his eyes as he cinched the belt of his robe a little tighter. He’d hoped to avoid running into Charles this morning, as the surgeon was meant to be in post-op for a few more hours still. Luck, it would seem, was not on the Californian’s side.
Crossing to the far side of his cot, Charles stooped to pick up the book he’d come to retrieve before fixing B.J. with a curious stare.
“I see you’ve missed a spot there, Hunnicutt. Don’t tell me that was intentional!”
The tone of voice set B.J.'s teeth on edge. He didn't think it looked that bad...
With Charles’ self-amused chuckles echoing in his ears, B.J. rubbed at his fledgling mustache and moved to throw his toiletries onto his cot. Sure, he’d wanted a distraction from his thoughts, but this. This may just be worse.
Charles strolled back towards the door, still snickering under his breath. He was halfway out before he turned back, a mocking glint in his eye and his grin exuding the habitual snobbery.
“Aha, I see. Well. I might have gone for a scarf or stole first, Hunnicutt. But we all must make our own choices and live with their consequences.”
Using the book to throw a salute from his brow, Charles was gone, the Swamp door slamming back into place.
B.J. sighed, Charles’ final words hitting too close to home.
Choices and consequences.
Naturally, Charles had to hit the proverbial nail on the head. How was he so infuriatingly right all the time?
Collapsing onto the edge of his cot, the surgeon slumped his head into his hands. Charles had been a semi-welcome respite from his corkscrewing, tumbling-down-the-rabbit-hole thoughts. At least Hawkeye had slept through the entire exchange, if the uninterrupted snoring was any indication.
Ignore it. Ignore it. Ignore it.
The incessant mantra was beginning to grate on B.J.’s nerves. But he couldn’t stop, lest the lid he’d managed to keep on this whirlwind inside of him decided to blow off. First, he needed a distraction; second, he needed some way to channel his sea of swirling, churning emotions.
Number one was easy: B.J. decided he’d go find Klinger or Radar. Ask them some questions about this new mustache plan. And then maybe mosey over to post-op, focus his mind on vitals and check-ups and bandages instead of on the emotional oscillations of his heart.
Keep him busy so that ignoring would be just a little bit easier.
But number two…what could he do about that?
Hand on the door, B.J. turned his head slightly to throw one last look at Hawkeye. Oh, how irresistibly exhilarating that man is. A strong current pulling him in, a riptide overpowering him.
What were those last few lines of that Sinatra song, again?
“Someday my happy arms will hold you,
And someday I'll know that moment divine
When all the things you are, are mine.”
Someday.
Maybe.
Maybe he’d tell Hawkeye how he felt.
Maybe this wasn’t all in his head.
Maybe he’d discover Hawkeye wanted to be close, too.
Maybe. Someday.
Until then, he’d stick to his plan. He’d ignore his feelings, hopes, desires. He’d try not to think about Hawkeye…well, think about him as much.
It was as good an idea as any, even if his upper lip was starting to itch a little.
As he stepped out into the warm fall day, B.J. took a deep, grounding breath. Everything around was much calmer that the storm that raged within him. “Ignore it” and “choices and consequences” chided him, pestered him, drowning out any other thoughts in his mind. With the mess tent his destination, he shoved his hands into his pockets, mind fiddling with possible courses of action to resolve problem number two.
B.J.’s fingers brushed against something in his pocket. He pulled it out, brow knit in confusion.
Upon seeing what he held in his hand, B.J. smiled.
This…this could be it. An incredibly idiotic plan…but, no worse than choosing to grow a mustache.
It would let him release all he had pent up and repressed, help him keep control over that tidal wave of emotions he felt himself drowning under.
A channel, a funnel, a written liberation. He’d have to do it in secret, though. Keep it well hidden, somewhere no one would look or even suspect. It could damn him and much as it could save him.
As he shoved the item back into his pocket, B.J. knew what he was about to do was infinitely stupid, selfish, unbelievable, and reckless. But he wanted to do it, and he’d live with the consequences. Once he got back to the Swamp, and ensured that he was alone, he could set this plan in motion.
All he needed was a paper and pencil.