Work Text:
Beej,
Hope all is well in your little corner of the world. Give my love to the family and spend an extra minute savoring the San Francisco skyline for me.
I’m sorry it’s been so long since I’ve written. I haven’t been sleeping well which means nothing is going well - I don’t need to tell you how that is. It doesn’t mean I haven’t been thinking of you. Jesus Christ, Beej, it feels like all I do. When I’m making coffee, when I’m feeling some poor kid’s lymph nodes, when I take out the garbage, I still miss you.
You always get on my ass about not actually telling you anything about my life. Which is fine, I get it, I’m thrilling. So here goes.
I told you I’m not sleeping much. I can get to sleep just fine but I’m also wide awake earlier than anything should be. For you that probably means something like 9AM, but for the rest of the world it’s more in the ballpark of 2 or 3. Lately I’ve been getting up and walking down to the water, sitting out on the rocks I used to climb as a kid. Damn it, we’re old. I’m usually down there before I can even see the waves rolling in, just the moonlight glinting off the water and excuse me for saying so but it’s the same color as your eyes. Somehow the sun comes up every morning and every morning it manages to surprise me. Okay maybe not surprise me, but every morning I wouldn’t be surprised if it didn’t come up. I swear to god, Beej I’ve never sat so still in my life. But in the cool morning air with salt water spitting up in my face I don’t even care.
That’s the way the ocean ought to be seen: waves breaking against a rocky coast on a fall Maine morning. It’s beautiful like a neat row of sutures is. Sure as hell looks nice on the surface but you can never quite forget how much pain and suffering and death could be on the other side.
You’ve got to come spend a morning with me like this. I know you probably have lovely, warm beaches in California but I’ve never bought into them.
I hate watching the tide go out. It makes me lonely and think about you even harder. I think about the waves echoing across the ocean to break on Spain or France or whatever is on the other side and I feel this emptiness at knowing the water is going even farther away from you than it was when I saw it.
The leaves are turning now. When I walk back home every morning (I’ve never understood why it was called a walk of shame until I didn’t actually have anything to be ashamed of) I watch them fall around the kids walking to school. Being back, I can’t wrap my head around why I ever left. There’s nothing in the world that could pull me away again.
That’s a lie.
There’s you.
Say the world and I’ll hop on a plane to watch the sunset over your ocean, bitching the whole time about it until you’re convinced to try the east coast.
Don’t be a stranger, Beej.
Hawk
***
Beej,
Okay so maybe I came on a little strong in my last letter. Call me off my game, call me crazy, call me whatever you want, just don’t call me. I’m serious - I think the sound of your voice would send me into a tailspin.
I’ve changed my mind about some things. I don’t ever want to see the Pacific again, knowing that at some point it will wash up to your front door and that’s just too damn close. Maine is too damn close. I want to go to Europe or the Middle East or whatever is as far away from you and Mill Valley as I can get.
You’re like a magnet, did you know that Beej? No matter how far I run or how hard I try to scrub you from my head, you’re the only thing I can ever seem to care about.
I don’t hate you - no matter how much it sounds like it. I never could. I just want to tell you to come home even though you’re already there. I don't feel like I’m home without you. Which is bullshit because you’ve never even set foot in New England and somehow you’re the only thing that feels right. And that doesn’t feel right.
Hawk
***
Okay Beej,
Or should I say asshole?
I know you haven’t moved because none of my letters have gotten returned. I know you’re not dead because Peg would at least be decent enough to call. So what the hell gives?
First you don’t want to say goodbye, and then when you finally do - and you still never technically said it, I’d like to point out - you commit so wholly you won’t even answer my damn letters? BJ, I don’t know what game you’re playing but I’m through. The silent treatment isn’t nearly as funny when you don’t even talk to me at all. It was never really our style to begin with, was it? I know we had a whole host of people behind us, but sometimes it felt like it was the two of us against the world.
Lately I’ve been thinking about that time I won a howitzer in a game of poker and I was so scared it was going to be pointed at people that you neutered it for me. I’m too scared to really actually delve into what I think about it in words but… I think about those things all the time, Beej. The stupid stunts we’d pull. The way we always, always backed each other up, even when we hated it. And it feels - it feels like something I didn’t know I could feel. If that makes any lick of sense, even though I know it won’t because I refuse to explain myself, even from thousands of miles away when I don’t even know if you’re reading these. Oi vey. Well. You know me, don’t you?
I lied in my last letter. Call me. Scream at the operator when they tell you I’m not home. Write me so many letters that I don’t even feel guilty for three whole unanswered ones. Drive here on your motorcycle. Fly the ocean in a silver plane. See the jungle when it’s wet with rain. I just need to know that you’re still there. That I’m not making up something else just to rationalize the shit we went through back there because the truth - you not being there, you not existing - is too painful for me to remember. Whatever breakdown you’d cause pales in comparison to the silence.
And if nothing else, dad said Peg promised him a shepherd’s pie recipe.
Sure, you’re probably off playing surgeon and homemaker of the year, but toss me a line every once in a while. Let an old war buddy know you’re doing alright. If I had any reason to believe you’d remember my face and let me in, I’d already be on the first flight to your doorstep. You can do with that what you will. I’m not sure even I know what it means.
Hawk
***
Beej,
It’s Christmas and I think I miss you more than ever. I never noticed how many Christmas songs are about love.
Yeah, Beej, love. Nothing makes me think of you more than that pesky little four lettered word that makes the world go round. I’ve written and rewritten this letter so many times I can’t even see my wastebasket so I guess I better just put it down on paper. I love you. I ache with it, BJ.
It used to be so light, just making you laugh and seeing your smile even when you were pissed at me. But now it’s so heavy I don’t how to keep carrying it. How did I find you? And why the hell was it in Korea? My first version included some pretty strong ranting and raving against Peg and why she got to meet you first. But that’s not fair. The universe is funny sometimes and I guess that there are some things I can’t control. Like love and timing and how much snow we’re gonna get.
Enough about me. I want to hear from you, Beej. It’s been far too long. How has the fall been? Is Erin in school yet? How’s Peg’s illustrious real estate career? Have your holidays been as Rockwell-worthy as I’m betting they were?
Dad actually made us get together with the extended family for Thanksgiving. If you think I’m a character you haven’t met the rest of the Pierce clan. It was exhausting and shitty and everything a family gathering ought to be. But I wished more than anything that you could have been there. Imagine falling asleep on top of each other full to bursting instead of starving and tired like we used to.
Just for the record: I get it if this is too much. I’ll lay low until I get a letter back from you for once. And if you don’t respond, I get it. Really. Truly. I’ll have my answer.
Pass along my love like I know you will and I hope you get to spoil your ladies rotten.
Merry Christmas.
Hawk
***
The remnants of last night’s party littered the living room in small, partially organized piles. They’d been too tired to do much clean up by the time Crabapple Cove went back to their own beds and they were both old enough that staying up until one in the morning took a day-long toll.
Hawkeye stretched out with a yawn on the sofa, nearly knocking his book off of his lap. For a few glorious seconds, he zoned out staring into the small fire in the fireplace. The radio softly hummed in the corner. It sounded like Bing Crosby but truth be told Hawkeye wasn’t paying all that much attention. He resituated his blanket up over his shoulders and went back to reading.
There was a knock on the door, just loud enough to jostle Daniel where he was dozing in his arm chair.
Hawkeye threw off the blanket with a huff and trudged to the door, mentally going over the guest list to see who could have possibly left something.
On his front step, wearing a god-awful fair isle sweater and framed by that morning’s fresh snow, was a rosy-cheeked BJ Hunnicutt.
“Beej?”
“I’m here to talk to you about bulk mail rates.”
“Sorry, pal, this is a solicitor-free neighborhood.”
BJ smiled, dazzlingly brilliant, and then kissed him, his mouth warm against the frigid air. He cupped Hawkeye’s jaw, scratching absentmindedly at the back of his head.
Hawkeye pulled away in a daze. “You’re quite the salesman.”
“It helps if you know your customer.” BJ rubbed a thumb across Hawkeye’s cheek, sending a shiver down his spine.
“BJ…”
“This is real. I’m here, Hawk, it’s me.”
Too shocked to do much but keep himself upright, Hawkeye reeled him back in by the hips and let BJ press him against the door jamb. Somehow it all felt right. The weight of him, the taste of him, the sound of him laughing in the back of his throat. For a long moment, they were suspended in time instead of on the front step of the house Hawkeye grew up in with the door wide open on a blustery January morning. Then he heard a car coming around the bend in the road and slipped back far enough to feign social respectability.
“You want to come inside? I don’t know if I have the time to print up Death of a Salesman playbills.”
BJ threw his head back in laughter, rocketing Hawkeye’s memory back to latrine diggings and nights curled up on an old dentist’s chair. “Yeah, let’s go,” BJ agreed and picked up his suitcase.
With BJ suddenly in his kitchen, Hawkeye found himself in a whirl of nervous energy. “Sorry about the mess, half of Crabapple Cove was here last night.” He grabbed a stack of plates from the counter and moved them into the sink. BJ caught his wrist, halting his manic movement and stepping around to stand face to face. Maybe it was the kitchen light but he seemed softer. His mouth pulled into a shy grin and his bright eyes skirted over Hawkeye’s face as he leaned in. It was terrifying. “Do you want anything to drink?”
BJ dropped his hand. “What’ve you got?”
“Eggnog leftover from last night?”
“Is it homemade?”
Hawkeye walked to the fridge and smiled at their reinstituted back and forth. “What do you take us for, animals?”
“After living with you for two years that’s not too long of a stretch, Hawk.”
He laughed as he poured the eggnog. “I may be an animal but at least I can dress myself.” Gesturing toward BJ’s sweater, he handed him his glass. “Where the hell did you even get that thing?”
With wide-eyed, mock offense, BJ put a hand to his chest. “I stopped off in Kittery to pick something up and I figured I could use as many layers as possible up here in the North 40.”
“Did you get something for Erin?”
“Well, yeah -“
“Don’t hold out on me. What is it?”
BJ’s shoulders fell in defeat. “A stuffed moose. But I also got something for you, if you’ll give me thirty seconds to tell you about it.” If Hawkeye didn’t know better, he’d say that BJ’s cheeks were pinker than they were when he was standing in the cold.
He rummaged through his suitcase, finally straightening and holding a cast iron skillet out towards Hawkeye.
“We may live in the North 40, but we do have pans, Beej.”
“It’s not a pan.” Hawkeye arched an eyebrow. “Okay, it is a pan, but more importantly it’s a promise.” He took a deep breath, opting to look over the skillet instead of Hawkeye. “I want to make you breakfast. I want to learn your french toast recipe by heart and make it better than you do. I want to get in each other’s way when we cook dinner. I want to argue with you about what should go in which cabinet. And I promise to put in whatever work I need to for us to have that, Hawk. I promise to work for you. For us.”
It had been approximately 22 years and 4 months since Hawkeye Pierce found himself speechless. And here he was, for about the third time in his life, left with nothing to say. BJ didn’t seem to mind, placing the pan on the counter and stepping forward to take Hawkeye’s face in his hands.
“Hawkeye.”
“BJ.”
“You okay in there?”
“I don’t know if I’m okay out here.” BJ laughed at him. Then his face spread into a deep yawn. “Sorry if I’m boring you, I’m a little out of practice.” BJ’s thumb rubbed reassuring circles in response and his hands resituated themselves like he was scared of letting go.
He leaned their foreheads together and Hawkeye was never more thankful to be out of someone’s eyesight. Taking as deep a breath as he thought he could get away with, he tried not to let his brain get ahead of him. This was BJ Hunnicutt - overthinker and overreactor to the extreme - and Hawkeye had long abandoned his giddy, hopeful, romantic side. War and mental institutions tended to have that effect.
But.
“Would it be unladylike to let you bunk with me?”
BJ stepped away toward his suitcase. “Would it be unladylike to accept?”
Hawkeye recognized the same butterflies in his stomach from the first time he showed BJ the swamp, but they must have been on hard drugs this time with how hard they flew around and up his esophagus. The third step from the top creaked. It always did. Hawkeye wanted to grab BJ by the collar and scream that this was him opening up and showing BJ all the things he hadn’t learned yet. Sheepishly pushing open his bedroom door, Hawkeye took it in with fresh eyes: the unkempt bed, the overstuffed bookshelf, the three coffee mugs on the bedside table.
BJ set down the suitcase and looked around the room like it was the Taj Mahal. “Well, it doesn’t smell as bad as the swamp.”
“Beej.” BJ turned on his heel, sensing the unease in Hawkeye’s voice. “I’m all for romantic gestures and dramatic love confessions, but you haven’t exactly confessed anything yet.”
“Are you kidding me?”
Hawkeye rubbed his forehead. “I need you to say it. I need to know I’m not looking too far into this.”
“I love you, Benjamin Franklin Hawkeye Pierce, you beautiful, incredible man named after an inventor, a president, and a stove.” BJ grinned with his whole face.
“And Peg?”
Stuffing his hands in his pockets, BJ rocked back and forth with nothing short of glee. “Is happy for us. She even sent along the shepherd’s pie recipe.”
“Listen, we both know how much of a masochist I can be, but I don’t know if there’s any part of me that’s believing this.”
“I’m in love with you, Hawk!” BJ paused, looking at Hawkeye like Hawkeye didn’t deserve to be looked at. “And I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to figure that out.”
With BJ’s reassurance, Hawkeye felt a little more like himself. Swept completely off his feet and stupidly in love, but at least he could breathe. “Well I’m sure we can think of a way for you to make it up.”
BJ looped his arms around Hawkeye’s hips and held him close. They leaned in to kiss again when BJ paused. “I’ve never seen this quiet, not even when you sleep.”
Hawkeye swallowed. “Well you already know that I love you. It’s nothing, Beej.”
“What is it?”
“It’s just - I’ve been hoping for this moment for so long, and now that it’s finally here I can’t let myself believe it.”
“Try.” BJ suggested, kissing away any doubt Hawkeye still harbored. At the very least BJ licking into his mouth and sighing against him made Hawkeye forget to have his guard up. When BJ pulled away again, Hawkeye couldn’t keep the words in.
“I want to wake up next to you every morning and pour you coffee and make fun of your mustache and spend too long getting ready for work because neither of us want to say goodbye. BJ, I want to pick Erin up from school and embarrass her at the zoo with you and pretend I don’t see you sneaking her ice cream when I tell her she can’t have any. Do you know how crazy that is? Me? Not only the responsible parent, but a parent, period? And it’s all I think about: fighting about who takes out the trash, and putting on sappy music when you’re trying to get work done, and making birthday cakes, and getting so drunk at work parties that you have to take me home before I do something stupid like kiss you in front of everyone. Oh, and making love, I want to do so much of that with you that we need to get our foundations checked.”
BJ’s eyes were watery even as he breathed out a laugh. “Yeah, Hawk,” he kissed him on the nose, “all of that.”
Pulling him in by the belt loops, Hawkeye let himself relax into the still-new feeling of kissing BJ Hunnicutt. BJ kissed like he did everything else: understated, but addicting. And the feeling of BJ’s torso, even through a thick Maine sweater, under his hands was better than he let himself imagine. Their hips aligned, making Hawkeye gasp into BJ’s mouth. BJ smiled and bit down on Hawkeye’s bottom lip, which was somehow even hotter. They stood, kissing and exploring each other and feeling altogether much younger than they were and so wrapped up that Hawkeye didn’t even remember there were horizontal surfaces in the room.
He heard a toilet flush downstairs.
Even though it took every ounce of willpower, Hawkeye pulled away.
“Everything okay, Hawk?”
“I want you to meet my dad.”
BJ gestured to where their hips met. “What, right now?”
“Yeah.” He laughed at the look of incredulousness on BJ’s face. “He was asleep when you got here! He doesn’t know anyone else is in the house. If he hears my mattress springs getting a workout, he’ll come looking.”
“Fine! Fine, I’ll meet your dad. Just, you know,” he cleared his throat, “give me a minute.” Hawkeye stepped away, but left him with a lingering kiss. “Oh, that’s dirty.”
“You think that’s dirty? Wait until you see me on my knees.”
“You’re not helping,” BJ singsonged, adjusting himself.
“I haven’t swept my floors! I don’t know what on earth you're talking about, Beej. Talk about a mind in the gutter, I mean, really.”
When BJ felt decent enough to go back downstairs, Hawkeye led the way, trying not to startle his father more than strictly necessary. Daniel and BJ immediately ganged up on him - to be fair, he should have seen it coming - and BJ wholeheartedly agreed to join them in their lazy New Years’ Day.
He stretched out on the couch with his feet in Hawkeye’s lap and held his yarn while he knitted. Now that he was so close, Hawkeye didn’t know how he ever survived being more than ten feet away, let alone a whole continent.
BJ dozed off after an hour or so. Hawkeye slowly extracted the ball of yarn and placed it on the end table with his scarf-in-progress. Stretched out between BJ and the seatback, he felt a small thrill of delight when BJ wrapped an arm around him, which was the last thing he remembered before he fell asleep.