16 Works by AMRV_5
Listing Works
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Hawkeye grabbed at the sports section again, and put a hole clean through to the advice columns.
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A few household games one evening in San Francisco, 1956.
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Skyscrapers in the city didn’t reach so much as hunch, Atlases under the sky’s stifling weight. High-rise lights in the distant far-up were smothered by the smog, which broke itself against the brickwork—just another murder-suicide.
One more cold night in a long spell of dark, listless, collar-turned-up evenings. New York. Nineteen fifty-three.
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Two doctors-turned-detectives meet by chance. They fall out, fall in, and fall together in the fall of 1953.
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“What’s somebody as pretty as you doing at a conference as dull as this, anyway?” Hawkeye’s gaze lingered obviously on BJ’s mouth. He was turning up the charm by degrees, trying to test exactly how firmly BJ was committed to playing hard-to-get.
“Networking,” BJ replied shortly.
“Networking?” Hawkeye’s smile lines deepened. He leered. “I like the sound of that. Think you and I could make a productive connection?”///
BJ and Hawkeye take a trip east to a conference and get carried away flirting on the dance floor, triggering a major misunderstanding with their colleagues—namely, that they absolutely hate each other.
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Hawkeye struggles to adjust to time off after a minor workplace injury, until BJ invokes a favored fantasy. Meanwhile BJ plays with a new angle of an old idea, before Hawkeye catches on and catches up. Together they manage to pass two weeks of vacation more pleasurably than anticipated.
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Hawkeye pulled away, looking at him up close. BJ’s eyes were very blue. “You’re awfully cocksure.”
“That’s because I’m awfully sure of my—”
Hawkeye yanked his tie again and kissed him.
“My punchline,” BJ protested, muffled by Hawkeye’s mouth. -
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Hawkeye nuzzled him, breathed warmly against BJ’s ear, and asked, “How do I feel?”
BJ shivered. He couldn’t speak. He wasn’t versed in this sort of dialogue—earnest, wanting, balanced precariously between passion and embarrassment. He always dropped his lines. But Hawkeye could make anything sound convincing.///
Valentine’s Day, 1955. An old conversation, a well-placed storefront, and a little imagination inspire BJ to give an extravagant gift. Hawkeye struggles to let himself accept it. Everything (and everyone) comes together eventually.
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1955 was curling in on itself, desiccating like a pillbug. Summer had passed. Autumn was well underway, leaves browning and San Francisco fog creeping in denser all the time, when he’d got the call. Daniel Pierce, more perplexed than worried, asking if he’d spoken with Hawkeye lately, and if he had, did he know anything about—and BJ had asked him to repeat himself three times—about ghosts?
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Or: In October of 1955, Hawkeye and BJ reunite to search for the supernatural, among other intangibilities.
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Alternately: Everything dies more brilliantly in Maine.
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He filled hundreds of pocket-size notebooks with every and anything that came to mind, scraps of memory, turns of phrase, lists of names, and at night he’d sit in front of the typewriter and tap away until he was too tired to continue.
It became his hallmark—O’Reilly, competent, quiet, always writing something. Fine. There were worse things to be known for.
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Or: Radar comes home, starts writing, and never really works out how to stop. Life elapses. In June of 1963, a couple of old friends arrange a visit.
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“Dad!” Hawkeye shouted suddenly, full-volume, hanging out the rental car’s window. His accent on the single syllable was thicker than BJ had ever heard it, his voice bright.
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Snapshots from a vacation. September, 1954.
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HAWK: What the hell happened?
BJ: I was going to ask you that.
HAWK (wince): Shh. Shh.
BJ: Stop hissing. You sound like a broken steam engine.
HAWK (clutching head): Shh!
BJ (eyes closed): God’s sake. Do I still have legs? I can’t feel them.
HAWK: I don’t know.
BJ: What?
HAWK: I’m not opening my eyes. There’s light out there.///
A collection of seven scenes Hawkeye can’t help causing.
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Written for the M*A*S*H Fic Olympics! Each chapter corresponds to the day’s theme.
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“Sure,” Hawkeye said. “I’d make a great housewife. Shining the telephone, arranging the fridge magnets, overcooking the laundry…”
“I mean it,” BJ said, tone perfectly controlled.
“Ha,” Hawkeye said, closing his eyes.
“Hawkeye,” BJ repeated. “I mean it.”///
Hawkeye can't seem to relax after a tough week at work. When he accidentally lets slip a secret fantasy, BJ decides it might be exactly what the doctor ordered to help the both of them wind down.
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“You know, you don’t have to pick me up and throw me around to make me crazy about you,” Hawkeye said, the pitch of his voice dropping to his non-glib honesty register: twenty years on, BJ had Hawkeye’s tones catalogued precisely.
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In 1976, BJ has a crisis of confidence. Hawkeye takes it upon himself to make him feel better. Of course, nothing ever goes precisely to plan.
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Hawkeye turned in his arms, setting his chin on his hands, his palms flat over BJ’s sternum.
Their eyes met. BJ’s breath caught, his chest warming—God, was Hawkeye lovely. BJ told him so.
“With this nose?” Hawkeye asked, crossing his eyes.///
The war ends. Life doesn’t.
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Even though the rest of Randal was pale and distinctly mannish, his stupid mouth was always pink like a girl’s, a stupid soft pink girl-mouth surrounded by two days’ blonde beard growth.
“Wake the fuck up, idiot,” Dante said, shoving his elbow into Randal’s side.///
Or: Dante considers his and Randal's place in the world, while Randal makes peace with Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of Happiness.
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“I don’t believe in ghosts,” Hawkeye said. “Or demons, or poltergeists, or souls, or anything. The problem being, however, that my disbelief doesn’t seem to be fazing this ghost one iota.”
Ben grimaced apologetically.
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Or: Hawkeye finds out what it really means to be haunted by the past.
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Aspirin or Sorrow (A Non-Comprehensive List of What the Dead Don't Need) by AMRV_5
Fandoms: MASH (TV)
08 Jul 2022
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There were universal truths. Slice a man open, he’ll bleed. Push him, he’ll fall. Stop his heart, he’ll die.
What did it make a man who broke the rules? More than human? Less?
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Or: An operation gone wrong lands Hawkeye square in the middle of a medical mystery he'd rather not be participating in.
So it goes. -
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“Rudyard Kipling,” BJ quipped. It was very possibly the shortest sale of a soul ever negotiated.
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Or: We must not look at goblin men, but—what could a fellow do if one looked at you first?