Chapter Text
“Aww Beeeeej, the night is young! There’s still so much to do! People to go, places to see! Whoooops, reverse those!”
B.J. rolled his eyes and pulled Hawkeye’s arm a little tighter over his shoulder as the drunken doctor dissolved into hysterics. Hawkeye had decided that tonight was a great night to drink himself into oblivion (it was just another typical Thursday in Korea after all). With the never-ending stream of liquor that he’d poured down his throat, matching three separate sergeants shot for shot, it was a miracle the man was upright and standing of his own volition. B.J. had to give him credit for that.
“Sorry, sweetie, you’ve got school tomorrow. You need your beauty sleep,” B.J. quipped, intently focused on not tripping himself or his bunkmate, who was deciding to do a wonderful impersonation of a rag doll at the moment. Not tripping was easier said than done, however. Hawkeye was not a heavy load to tote; even soaking wet, carrying him wouldn’t put a strain on B.J. one bit. But at this stage of drunkenness, and B.J. was well versed in all stages of Hawkeye’s drunken personalities, Hawkeye Pierce lost all control of his limbs. Any semblance of coordination went blissfully out the window, so that the man B.J. was lugging back towards their tent was tripping, shuffling, dancing, kicking, swaying, and jumping, all at the same time, and with all the grace of what B.J. would charitably label a newborn foal.
Straining to keep Hawkeye from twirling away from him to some unheard tune, B.J. picked up his pace a little because the Swamp had miraculously appeared in view. The more sober surgeon sent a quiet prayer up for this night to be over soon. Just a few more feet to go and he’d have his charge deposited on his own cot, and B.J. could finally, finally catch up on the sleep he’d been dreaming about the last few hours.
That was the idea anyways. But what well intentioned plan ever survived the cataclysmic touch of the mischievous, salt-and-pepper headed satire savant with a knack for insane wit and shameless flirtations?
Hawkeye, who had initially pouted at B.J.’s words, had changed comically to now sport a toothy grin. That star dazzling, knock-you-off-your-feet-in-two-seconds-flat-and-have your-pants-dropping-a-moment-later, kind of smile.
“Beeeauuuty sleep ? Well yoooou’re a knockout, Beej, and my hotel room’s right ahead, soooo what do you say soldier?” Hawkeye drawled, shooting B.J. an exaggerated, provocative wink.
All B.J. could do was chuckle. The easy, quippy banter that flew off Hawkeye’s tongue always managed to keep him on his toes, as did his insatiable ability to flirt with anything with a pulse. Absolutely incorrigible.
Without warning, the intoxicated man wrestled his arm away from B.J.’s solidifying presence. Hawkeye staggered drunkenly away, splayed his arms out and attempted a solo act of the jitterbug. It was not gracefully executed. On the best of days Hawkeye had a decent grasp of rhythm, but with his current blood alcohol level, the dance came out looking more like a staggered shuffle.
When the whole world tilted and spun in his vision, the drunk doctor decided maybe dancing wasn’t his best decision. Shifting gears, he batted his blue, somewhat glassy eyes at B.J., and, holding a pretend microphone, began to croon in a sultry voice.
“Youuu arrreee, the promised kiss of spring tiiiiimeee!”
The tipsy singing drew mostly annoyed but some amused stares from the nurses and soldiers that happened to be walking near the pair. Hawkeye was in full entertainment mode, a common occurrence amidst his drunken behaviors. It was a familiar song and dance routine that the surgeon slipped into effortlessly; laughter and jokes and pretending were simpler than looking too closely at terrifying, blood-stained, capital “R” Reality.
“That makesss the lonely winter ssssseeem loooongggg!”
Hawkeye swayed dangerously on his feet, a goofy grin on his face. B.J. rolled his eyes at his friend’s antics, wondering how the man still had the energy for this after a never-ending session of meatball surgery topped off with a significant amount of alcohol. He watched as the intoxicated man stumbled, before plopping unceremoniously down on one knee, arms outstretched.
“Youuu arrreee, the breathhhlesss hush of eveninnnggggg!”
Oh, how lovely. Now it’s a serenade.
“Thatttt...something-something-something…a lovelyyyy songgggg!”
Trying to hide his amused smirk, B.J. grabbed at one of Hawkeye’s outstretched arms, tossing it back over his shoulder as he heaved the man up to stand on unsteady feet.
“Come on, Sinatra. Let’s get you home.”
Hawkeye didn’t let the manhandling dull his performance, proceeding instead to take advantage of his proximity to B.J. and sing unabashedly into his ear.
“You-youuuu areee the aaangeellll glooowwww-”
With every slurred word, B.J. regretfully inhaled a strong whiff of whiskey, gin, beer, and all other manner of drinks the O Club had been stocked with. Hawkeye was precariously perched on two left feet at this point, having consumed enough alcohol to put an Irishman to shame. B.J. tactfully led them around the Swamp’s directional sign, intending to limit the damage done to their humble abode.
“That lightssss a carrrrrrr-”
“I think it’s supposed to be ‘star’, Hawk…” B.J. muttered, thinking that he would bet his next paycheck on the fact that Hawkeye wouldn’t remember a damned thing from tonight.
“A thousand apologies to my captive audience--- a STARRRRR!”
Now he’s just trying to sound bad.
Putting a steadying arm around Hawkeye’s waist, B.J. grabbed at the Swamp door with his now free hand. After a few tries, he managed to pull the door open and maneuver Hawkeye through without injury to himself, his roommate, or their luxurious accommodations. He might just have to take up juggling at this point.
B.J. shuffled the pair over towards Hawkeye’s cot, attempting to deposit his charge somewhat gently. He wasn’t entirely successful, for as soon as he took away the stabilizing arm on Hawkeye’s back, the surgeon all but collapsed with exhaustion, or drunkenness, or both. Hawkeye fell face down onto his pillow, not bothering to remove a single article of clothing or unlace a single boot.
“Theeee dearest thingsss...that I knowwwww-” Hawkeye continued, a mouthful of pillow case not stopping the end of his performance.
With a huff of amusement, B.J. headed for his own cot, dropping a bit more gracefully onto his than Hawkeye had. In spite of the muffled sound to his words, the soused surgeon confidently belted out the last line.
“Are what youuuuu areeeeeeee.”
At singing “you”, Hawkeye raised a tired arm and pointed it in the general direction of B.J.’s cot, eliciting a bemused chuckle and head shake from the Californian.
“Now, really, Hawk, I’m a married man,” he needled, lips quirking upwards.
A garbled groan emanated from Hawkeye’s general direction. He lifted his head a smidge and shifted his eyes towards B.J., pouting.
“You’re no fun.”
B.J. rolled his eyes as Hawkeye dramatically plopped his head back down into his pillow and started humming the last three lines of the Frank Sinatra tune. As he bent down to unlace his boots, B.J. could have sworn he heard something that sounded like “party pooper” coming from the drunk in the corner.
With a breathy laugh, B.J. couldn’t help but marvel at his roommate’s insane capacity for shenanigans, mischief, tomfoolery, and all other manner of misbehavior. He just didn’t know how Hawkeye managed it. But boy was it sure a sight to behold.
Satisfied that Hawkeye was still breathing despite smothering himself in his own pillow, B.J. relished in the relief of unlaced boots, kicking his feet up, and relaxing. After long OR sessions, especially like the one they just had, sitting down truly never felt so good. This last one had been particularly rough. He’d just gotten back from some much-needed R and R; three whole days of good food, good sleep, and no blood-stained anything . No sooner had his jeep rolled into the compound than Radar’s voice had boomed over the loudspeakers about incoming wounded, lots of them. And that light, floaty feeling cloaking B.J.’s shoulders had been dashed quicker than he could say “Honey, I’m home!” Batch after batch of bloodied soldiers came in, seeming younger and younger as the hours ticked by, all but ensuring the destressing he’d achieved in Tokyo was unceremoniously thrown out the window. B.J. shook his head remembering how he hadn’t even had time to unpack before being whisked away to the scrub room; just threw his duffel bag and dress uniform on his cot before hightailing it after Hawkeye and Charles.
My duffel bag!
With Hawkeye still humming a loud and out of tune song he didn’t recognize in the background, B.J. lunged for his bag. He began intently searching, pushing aside shorts, socks, undershirts, a present for Peg, the Fig Newtons he’d bought for Colonel Potter...until his fingers finally brushed soft fabric. With a small triumphant sound, B.J. pulled his brand-new kimono from the duffel.
His blue robe was all fine and dandy, but this was precisely the article of clothing that was called for during gin-drinking afternoons in the Swamp. Kicking off his boots, B.J. shed his green jacket and slipped into the greyish-black kimono. He had seen it hanging at a little stall in the market on his last day of R and R, and for some reason, he felt that he just had to have it.
Getting to his feet, he gave himself a once over. It fit nicely, and would be offset beautifully by his drinking hat. B.J. couldn’t help the smile that spread across his face. Peg’s gunna love this. I wonder what Hawkeye will think?
Curious for an answer, and knowing it would probably be laughable considering the state Hawkeye was in, B.J. walked over to Hawkeye’s cot and gave his friend’s shoulder a little shake.
“Hey, Hawk!”
The muffled sound he heard seemed to be an affirmative response, although Hawkeye didn’t show any hint of moving.
B.J. shook him a little bit harder.
“Come on, Hawk, I’ve got something to show ya!”
“No one’s home. Leave your name and number and someone will get back to you in 3 to 5 business days,” Hawkeye grumbled.
The intoxicated sweet-spot was beginning to wear off, moving Hawkeye from boisterous and chatty to brooding and gloomy. As a bonus that Hawkeye definitely didn’t ask for, the Swamp had taken on the distinct impression of sickeningly spinning around him, or maybe he was spinning and the Swamp was still? Either way, all he wanted to do was keep his eyes shut, his head stuffed in a pillow, and a tamp on his alcohol-infused emotional state.
“Well, well, well. Looks like someone’s moved onto the final step: inebriated and melancholy.”
An unamused groan emerged from the semi-conscious surgeon.
Dropping down in the chair next to Hawkeye’s cot, B.J.’s eyes raked over the sprawled out form of his roommate: legs askance, uniform askew, and instead of music being hummed, it was now depressing moans and unsatisfied huffs of discontent. Definitely reached the sorrowful despondency phase.
“In-e-bri-a-ted. That’s fun to say. Ineeeebriated. Who’s inebriated? Who isn’t inebriated? I’ve been inebriated since my medical school entrance exams,” Hawkeye slurred into his pillow case.
He heaved a melodramatic sigh, visibly deflating in an attempt to sink further into his rigid army cot. Everything was jumbled and spinning, his thoughts dizzyingly pinging around his brain, coherency lingering tantalizingly out of reach. Words were flowing from his lips without a second thought, which was always a dangerous venture into the depths of his psyche.
“As for melancholy, my good sir, I do not dance with that devil. For it is a mortal folly of which I have no cause to endure. That emotion dare not touch me—I am the brightest ray of sunshine in this steaming, rotten rubbish heap,” he added, a cockney accent on his stifled words.
B.J. quirked up an eyebrow. Melancholy Hawkeye was a real treat. And he is reallyyyyy drunk right now. I don’t think he’s going to remember any of this tomorrow.
“Charles? Oh, Charles is that you I hear?” B.J. jibed, tossing his feet up on Hawkeye’s bunk. He should be writing a letter to Peg, he’d thought of practically nothing else during those 24 hours in surgery, but instead he leaned back and settled comfortably into the chair. He was undeniably entertained by the random, incoherent phrases emanating from his undeniably blitzed roommate. No filter Hawkeye was deliciously unpredictable.
“That shiny cue ball is from Bos-ton,” Hawkeye mumbled gruffly. “Boston high society, so high you’d need stilts to even graze the lapels of his smoking jacket. That accent was Brit-ish. You know: small island, bland food, God Save the Queen, land of our forefathers?”
B.J. chuckled under his breath as he reached behind him and snagged his drinking hat. Perching it askew on his head, he folded his hands across his chest and fixed Hawkeye with an appraising look. Shiny cue ball, he’d have to remember that insult for their resident aristocrat. Poking fun at Charles wasn’t nearly as fun when he wasn’t around, but it still was one of the pair’s more entertaining pastimes.
“Well, it was no Cary Grant, but you’d definitely give him a run for his money with your devilishly handsome looks and sparkling personality,” B.J. replied, hand placed thoughtfully on his chin, finger tapping his nose. “Anyways, Charles sounds more Brit-ish than Boston-ish...”
B.J. raised his eyes towards the tent ceiling in thought, calling up his best impression of a Boston accent.
“One time Chaales invited me to the bah for a beah. A bah? I said. A bah! He replied. We sounded like a gaggle of wicked sheep!”
It wasn’t his best pun, but he thought the Boston accent wasn’t half bad. Instead of the laugh he had expected to hear though, Hawkeye had gone oddly silent. No chortle, snicker or guffaw, no groaning, huffing, or grousing either. Just...silence.
B.J. looked towards his roommate and was surprised to see his head turned in his direction, blue eyes open wide and staring disconcertingly at him.
Hawkeye swallowed thickly. He opened his mouth to say something…but nothing came out.
The tense silence and Hawkeye’s intense expression caught B.J. off guard. All of a sudden, some sort of switch had been flipped, one that he was completely unaware of.
Hawkeye blinked, and then blinked again. He was seeing double, no triple, and the room was still nauseatingly spinning—and all he could discern, which made no goddamn sense and was so wildly unrealistic, was an askew straw hat and a dark kimono. Because only one person ever wore that. At least only one person he knew of that had a Boston accent.
“Tr-Trap?”
Huh...? B.J. gave a quick look to his left and right, and then another one behind him. Trap? As in Trapper? The Trapper?
“What are you doin’ here? When did’ya get back?” Hawkeye whispered, confusion evident in his slurred words.
Back? He can’t really think I’m Trapper...can he?
“You shouldn’t be here, Trap. You got to go home, remember? Why aren’t you home...”
B.J. was dumbfounded by Hawkeye’s words. Maybe he was…hallucinating? Dreaming? So far past three sheets to the wind that he’d somehow mentally reverted back to a few months ago? At any rate, if Hawkeye was truly seeing things, this was a whole new level of drunkenness that B.J. had never experienced. All he knew for certain was that the broken lilt in Hawkeye’s voice and the pain burning in his cerulean eyes meant the intoxicated surgeon believed, no matter how bizarrely, that he, B.J. Hunnicutt, was Trapper.
What B.J. really wanted to say was: you’re starting to freak me out here, because this has never happened before, and this is a situation I have no clue how to handle, so could you please just...snap out of it? Instead, the Californian cleared his throat and stared imploringly into those dark blue orbs.
“Hawk...?”
Hawkeye startled at the use of his name, and although B.J. was making eye contact, he could tell Hawkeye didn’t really see him. B.J. hadn’t broken the reverie that seemed to consume his roommate; Hawk's glassy eyes were staring right through him.
Barely more than a whisper, Hawkeye’s voice broke.
“You didn’t even say goodbye, Trap. Everything we’d been through together, after all of that, and all you left me was a kiss? How could you do that to me?”
B.J. swallowed thickly, hating the pain and remorse that laced Hawkeye’s every syllable. Hated that somehow he was making Hawkeye feel this way. Hated Trapper for the way he disappeared if these were the emotions he’d left in his destructive wake.
He didn’t want to be Trapper. B.J. knew in Hawkeye’s mind, at least at first, he was just filling the other guy’s shoes. But he’d tried so hard to remove himself from that, to show Hawk that he wasn’t going to leave the way Trapper did, that he could trust him.
Hawkeye had a faraway look in his eyes, voice thick with emotion.
“I waited. For days, weeks. And no letter, nothing. Maybe all we’d shared didn’t mean as much to you as it did to me. I understand you wanting to forget. But did you really want to forget everything?”
B.J. was speechless. Dumbfounded. Perplexed. Flabbergasted.
It was one thing to be mistaken for Trapper, it was quite another for your roommate to drunkenly reveal how much the previous occupant of the Swamp had hurt him. He searched for words, phrases, sounds, anything to say, but B.J. was coming up empty. How Hawkeye felt after Trapper left had been danced around and hinted at, but never actually admitted. Whenever the conversation got too serious, or B.J. asked too personal of a question, the dark-haired surgeon would obfuscate with a salacious joke or entice him into a witty repartee.
This was something new.
Something different.
As much as Hawkeye was rambling about how Trapper had treated him, there seemed to be things left unsaid, secrets swirling in the drunken man’s eyes. Things B.J. didn’t need to be a genius to piece together.
We were close, Hawkeye had said. And left it at that.
Close.
How...ambiguous. That term might mean something entirely different depending on the context, connotation, and subtext. Because B.J. had friends who were close back in Mill Valley, friends who enjoyed the nightlife in San Francisco and the bars in Chinatown. Was Hawkeye that kind of close with Trapper? Or was he close in the way that B.J. assumed he and Hawkeye were?
It didn’t really matter one way or the other. That’s what B.J. told himself. But he couldn’t help the pit of jealousy that knotted itself in his gut. Because while he and Hawkeye were close, there were times they felt like maybe he wanted to be a different kind of close …
But that wasn’t something he would force into their relationship.
That was his life, his secret.
He’d always just assumed that Hawkeye’s insatiable flirtations and effortless magnetism with members of both sexes was just Hawkeye being Hawkeye. There was never presumed to be any truth behind those propositions…right?
B.J.’s mind was racing a mile a minute and he had to force himself to breathe. He was getting ahead of himself, that spiraling rabbit hole he’d just dove down was in no way based on hard evidence or proof of any kind. He was guessing, assuming. And you know what they say about assuming.
Still struggling to find the right thing to say, Hawkeye put the surgeon out of his misery. He plopped his head back down with an exhausted sigh and picked back up singing the Frank Sinatra song from earlier, seeming to have forgotten all that had just taken place.
“Somedayyyy, my happy arms…will hold youuu.
And someeedayyyyy, I’ll knowww…that moment divine,
When all the things you are…are…mine.”
B.J. stared at the back of the drunken man’s head, trying not to read too far into the muffled lyrics filtering passed Hawkeye’s pillow. The off-key singing turned into humming, which eventually turned into heavy breathing, and then finally snoring. Hawkeye Pierce, drinking heavyweight extraordinaire, had officially crashed.
Still B.J. didn’t say anything. His mind was running a mile a minute, and he knew for sure he had not had enough to drink to be thinking about this right now. B.J. tried to recall the things Hawkeye had brought up about Trapper. What had set him off? Why had this night been so different from all the others?
He brought a hand up to scratch at an itch on his arm and his fingers brushed the edge of his new kimono. He hadn’t done anything different today or said anything differe- oh, fuck.
The pieces slowly started to fall into place.
The kimono.
The drinking hat.
The Boston accent.
That couldn’t be it...could it?
“Idiot,” B.J. breathed under his breath. He tore off his drinking hat and tossed it behind him onto his cot. Standing up, B.J. started removing his kimono, mentally berating himself and shaking his head in frustration. Was it really that simple?
A rap on the door made him jump, one arm still in his new robe.
“Captain Pierce? Captain Hunnicutt?”
It was Nurse Able. She was peering through the window, voice frantic.
“Uh...yeah!” B.J. called. He hated to admit that he was relieved by the distraction, anything to take his mind off of all he'd heard. Opening the door slightly, the nurse looked concernedly in Hawkeye’s direction before catching B.J.’s gaze.
“Private Simmons’ blood pressure is dropping, and Hawkeye had asked to be told if his condition worsened. I was coming to grab him, but…” she trailed off, eyes taking in the surgeon’s sprawled, unconscious state.
“Oh right he did mention something about that. But don’t worry, I’m covering for him tonight. I’ll be right behind you!”
With a nod, the nurse closed the door and headed off towards post-op.
B.J. threw the dark grey kimono back into his bag with a disheartened huff. A corner of the silk was still sticking out, so he shoved it further down underneath a used shirt and a pair of socks, a bit more aggressively than was strictly necessary. With the same hostility, he slammed his feet into his boots, not even bothering to lace them up. He crossed the Swamp, not looking forward to what would undoubtedly be a long night. Upon checking his watch, he realized with a sigh that it would be a long early morning.
Hawkeye’s snores echoed in his ears as he opened the door. As he tossed one last look at his bunkmate who was still soundly asleep, a heaviness wrapped tightly around B.J.'s heart. There was a part of him that wanted Hawkeye to forget all about tonight because their lives would be so much easier, they could go on pretending that everything was the same and they wouldn't have to deal with any of it. Another part of him, a smaller, more wistful part, secretly hoped that Hawkeye would remember.
But one thing was certain: if he’d known Hawkeye was going to react like this, he would have left that damn kimono in Tokyo.