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SPRING.
As is unfortunately, painfully, terribly common, it’s an overwhelmingly sticky and hot day at the 4077th.
It’s spring in Korea, which means that about 50% of the time it’s raining absolute cats, dogs, and all other zoo animals, 45% of the time it’s still just more and more rain, and in the rare 5% that it isn’t raining, it’s so humid that it might as well just be raining anyway.
Today’s been one of those 5% days, at least so far. Though normally Hawk would be grabbing BJ by the scuff, dragging him outside into one of those lawn chairs he pilfered from somewhere, and taking turns attempting to drown BJ, then himself, then any innocent (or not so innocent) passerby with a hose, today that doesn’t happen.
BJ can’t blame the guy, of course. But he can get mildly annoyed at him.
“You know, I don’t think pacing a hole in the floor’s actually gonna get you to the other side of the globe and back stateside. I’ve tried. Apparently there’s this thing called the core in the way.” BJ’s got his legs stretched out before him in the cot and folded at the ankles, and he watches Hawkeye do just that for what feels like hours on end now— pace, and pace, and pace.
“Haha,” is Hawkeye’s retort.
BJ waits. Hawkeye doesn’t elaborate.
Fighting off the urge to sigh, BJ says, “I know the great Shakespeare himself said brevity is the soul of wit and all that, but you’re gonna have to give me something more to work with here. I can’t perform my scene without my partner.”
Partner. BJ hadn’t meant anything by it, not this time at least, but the word sizzles as soon as it falls out of his lips anyway, like it always seems to when it comes to Hawkeye. An innocent joke, a meager attempt to draw Hawkeye out of his shell, turns into something more when it comes to them, as it sits within the swollen space between their gazes. Because Hawkeye’s eyes are finally on him now, though they’re traveling back and forth and back and forth as Hawkeye doesn’t stop his pacing.
There’s worry, there, somehow both frantic and resigned at once, but recognition too; clearly Hawkeye knows this is an attempt to distract him from his worries, and it seems like he takes it but only half-heartedly as he says, “What, you didn’t prepare your monologue?”
“I’m afraid not. All I remember is about half of the alphabet. N… O… P…”
This gets Hawkeye to stop. This gets Hawkeye to laugh, and though it’s not as loud as usual it’s still a pleasant bark of noise, a handsome upward tug at his lips.
“You’re starting at ‘N?’”
BJ shrugs. “I never said it was the first half.”
This makes Hawkeye laugh again, and this time BJ joins in too. Though the world’s problems still exist around them, it feels natural to laugh like this, like aloe on a burn. It won’t fix the issue right away, but it’s a step in the right direction.
Finally Hawkeye stops pacing, and flops down on the cot across from BJ. Uncrossing his ankles, BJ shifts until he’s sitting sideways on his bed, so he can face the other surgeon.
“I’m just worried,” Hawkeye says, at length, answering the unspoken question that BJ is staring at him.
“I know.”
“Come on, you better than anyone knows how important those letters are, Beej. Those scraps of paper going thousands of miles over the sea are the only life boat we’ve got to the states. And even if they say absolutely nothing important, even if they’re just pure gibberish, getting any kind of letter at all gives me a reprieve from the cycle of yelling at myself in my head and yelling at myself through the wall.”
“I do know, Hawk. Of course I do.”
Hawkeye throws his hands in the air. “Then why’re you so calm? I would’ve thought any pause from your onslaught of Hunnicutt-Household letters would have you raging like a bull in a matador fight that just saw red.”
Though he tries to make some sort of empty, vague hand gesture, BJ just ends up sighing. “Obviously I’m upset. I just know there’s nothing to do about it but wait.”
“Wait? Wait? What if my dad gets sick while I’m waiting? What if there’s an emergency, and I don’t hear about it for months?”
Due to some issues with spies-slash-fuel-cost-slash-who-knows-what-else, all stateside mail’s been cut off for the unforeseeable future. Though the messenger that the army sent them yesterday let the camp know that they do plan to reinstate the mail system at some point, he, and all the combined weight of the brass above him, have no idea when.
Everyone’s been taking it understandably hard, but Hawkeye more so than others— which is a surprise. He’s usually more resilient to the army’s antics, but that just goes to show how much this war can wear somebody down. It also goes to show that Hawkeye isn’t nearly as infallible as BJ would like to think he is— would like to hope he is. It puts an ache in BJ’s chest, somewhere just behind his ribs, and soon BJ found himself going from mope mode to cheer up Hawkeye mode. It’s easier to focus on this than the agony of not getting any letters from home, anyway.
“If it’s really an emergency,” BJ replies, “he can just call. Y’know, that wacky little invention called a telephone?”
“Well— what if his phone stops working?”
“Then he can use his neighbor’s.”
“What if those stop working too?”
“You’re worried that all phones in Crabapple Cove are suddenly gonna go down? That’s a lot to be worried about, even for you.”
“Alright then, Sam Spade, P.I., riddle me this.” Waggling his index finger in BJ’s direction, Hawkeye’s got that tone in his voice that means he’s being combative even when he knows he’s in the wrong. At the very least, mildly combative is better than deeply anxious. BJ considers this another step in the right direction. “What if he loses his voice? What if he can’t communicate over the phone at all?”
“Where would your dad lose his voice?”
“Uh…” A pause. “Church.”
“I thought he was an atheist.”
“Only on Sundays.”
That makes them laugh again, and then Charles walks in and predictably makes some sort of annoyed comment at the sight of their relative cheeriness, and the conversation diverges from there. There’s still that extra layer of worry in Hawkeye’s eyes, in his fidget-y mannerisms, but at least it doesn’t quite seem like it’s consuming him the way it did earlier.
Plus, at least BJ’s got an idea now.
***
“What is this?” Hawkeye waggles the letter in front of BJ’s face the next day, before plopping down to sit across the table from him.
“Well, good morning to you, too,” is BJ’s response, as he procrastinates trying to eat whatever the army has decided to pass off as scrambled eggs today.
“Yes, yes, good morning dear, you look lovely today as always, et cetera et cetera.”
BJ is trying not to grin ear to ear. He’s also trying not to blush faintly at the silly compliment, the gentle sliver of domesticity, like he’s some hormonal schoolboy again.
Hawkeye shakes the letter in BJ’s face again, and BJ can tell that the man’s also trying to fight off a smile.
“Well,” BJ says mildly, as he gives up on his breakfast and drops his fork back onto his platter, “I believe that’s what we in the industry call ‘paper.’”
“Haha.” Hawkeye swats BJ’s head with the paper, which both makes BJ laugh and makes his hair fall in front of his eyes. “What I mean is, why did I get woken up 15 minutes ago by Radar waving an envelope in front of my face, addressed from what seems to be the man who lives 5 feet from me? Or, well, according to this he lives in—” Hawkeye pauses to read it. “‘Juneau, Alaska?’”
Feigning nonchalance, BJ shrugs. “I like the cold?”
“Beej,” Hawkeye says around a laugh, mouth shaped like a stretched out heart and eyes shining with something between confusion and amazement.
“Alright, alright. What? You said you wanted a letter to keep you sane, any sort of letter, right? Even gibberish? Well I happen to know a very handsome man by the name of J.B. Hunniccutt who lives in the cold, lonely city of Juneau, Alaska, and was looking for someone to be the secret admirer of. So I told him all about you, put him in contact with Radar, and the two of them found a way to ship letters across the ocean while circumventing the army block.”
BJ shrugs again, the motion easy, and then starts poking at his eggs again just as an excuse not to look Hawkeye in the eye. It’s rare of him, to want to avoid eye contact, and it’s silly, too, considering how much they’ve gone through together. How close they are. But something like this feels just a bit too close to the edge of raw, this admittance of… of something. Of wanting to take care of Hawkeye when he’s down. Of writing a fake— well, real, technically, but ridiculous— letter, like that could temporarily replace the solace of receiving mail from home. It feels too much like an admission, or maybe a lie, saying maybe we can make some sliver of home, here. Or something like that.
But Hawkeye then guffaws, a real loud laugh, and when BJ glances up the other surgeon looks tickled pink. There’s a brightness in his expression that BJ hasn’t seen all week, and it both loosens and tightens something inside him, like the air pressure that comes after a champagne cork is popped.
“Well, that makes a lot of sense, then.”
The rest of the meal passes in peaceful silence between the two of them, with just the background chatter of the mess tent rolling on. BJ makes a valiant attempt to swallow down his food, and occasionally subjects Hawkeye to the horror of army-issued tater tots to make sure the man gets something akin to food in him; Hawkeye barely pays attention, instead letting his eyes roam over the letter over and over and only opening his mouth to absently accept the food when BJ gently pokes him his cheek with the fork.
“That must really be an interesting letter,” BJ comments, striving once again for nonchalance but getting undercut by the fact that he feels his cheeks glowing faintly warm. Though Hawkeye’s not even look at him, the way he rakes his eyes over the letter almost feels more intricate. “You’re so focused on it that you’re not even cringing at the potatoes.”
“Oh, it’s ravishing.” Hawkeye jokingly peeks over the edge of the paper and shoots BJ a wink, which makes BJ splutter. Thankfully he manages to pass it off as choking on the food, and double thankfully Hawkeye’s back to reading the letter so he’s not paying the closest attention, but still. “I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”
***
Dear Benjamin Pierce,
I write to you all the way from the city of Juneau, Alaska. A very tall, kind, handsome friend of mine named B.J— you might know him— told me you were in need of a pen pal. I thought that I could provide. You see, it’s very cold here in Juneau, so the government mandates that we stretch our fingers for at least 30 minutes a day so that they don’t get frozen over and fall off. That’s how that happens, right? I wouldn’t know, I’m not a doctor.
But anyway, I figured writing is as good a way as any to get the blood circulating back to my hands, and so here I am. I don’t know if this letter will manage to reach you in Korea, but B.J.’s assured me that he has an in with a resourceful little guy named Radar who can make sure this gets delivered, at the cost of a case full of grape nehis, of course. Grape nehis are actually the main export of Juneau, so that’s not going to be a problem. On the other hand, if it was orange Nehis he demanded? That would be a whole other issue.
I’m not sure what you’ll pay this Radar fella to convince him to mail your return letters to me, but I hear you’re smart so I’m sure you’ll be able to figure that out. B.J.’s let me know you’re a pretty clever guy. He says you’re head surgeon of your unit. So I guess that just leaves the torso, legs, and feet surgeons, huh? If there happens to be a job opening let me know. I may not be a doctor, but I am a shoe salesman, so I know my way around some toes.
Still, Korea’s a pretty long way to go from Alaska. Maybe I’ll ask you to sell some shoes for me. Let me know. I look forward to our potential business endeavors.
Sincerely and unsincerely yours,
J.B. Hunnicutt
P.S. What size shoe are you?
***
The responding letter comes the next day, in the afternoon.
BJ has to pretend like he isn’t anxious for it. Isn’t deeply, furiously, excited for it. He also has to make an active attempt not to hover over Radar like a tall, impatient ghost.
Korea has gone back to its onslaught of rain, so the swampmates spend most of their day indoors. Thankfully rain tends to mean less casualty, since it seems like even opposing armies don’t love shooting at each other when the weather leaves them with less than 10 feet of visibility in front of them. That does, however, mean that the 4077 has plunged itself into boredom yet again, so BJ has very little to keep his mind occupied as he waits. Those seem to be the two moods, here: overworked frenzy, or soul-draining ennui.
So far, he’s spent the morning sleeping, staring at the rain, sleeping some more, playing Cat’s Cradle with Hawkeye, playing Cat’s Cradle with a very begrudging Charles, losing at Cat’s Cradle against Charles, swearing to never play Cat’s Cradle again, organizing his clothes, and then playing Cat’s Cradle again with Hawkeye.
At some point Hawkeye triumphantly declares that he’s going to go brave the storm and run to the mess tent for some food, and both BJ and Charles declare him nuts as they wave him goodbye.
A few minutes or so after that comes the sound of a few very urgent raps at their door with the exact cadence with which Radar always knocks.
“Come in, Radar, and bring the rain in with you!” BJ calls out to be heard over the onslaught of weather.
“Sir yes sir!” Radar replies, sounding as endearingly earnest as always. Then he does just that, opening the door and getting the floor around him absolutely soaked as he stumbles inside. After a moment, Radar stares down at the puddle below him before grinning self-consciously up at BJ. “I hope you meant that literally, sir, because literally’s how I took it.”
“Literal’s my middle name.”
“Really?”
BJ smiles. “Literally.”
Charles rolls his eyes so hard that BJ swears it quite literally makes a sound. Or maybe that’s him groaning. It’s hard to tell.
“If you two are done being as ridiculous as always, I would beseech you to move, Corporal. You’re dripping all over my Tchaikovskies,” Charles all but sneers out, as he picks up his case of records and moves them out of the vicinity of Radar’s dripping clothes.
“Sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to get your, uh, Thai coffee wet.” Radar glances over at BJ as if looking for approval, and BJ shoots him a thumbs up. Charles lets out another eye roll and groan combo.
“What brings you here on this beautiful day, Radar?” BJ finally asks, eyeing at the strange lump that the man has tucked under his three layers of rain coats. “Felt like taking a walk? Breathing in the clear, spring breeze?”
“Oh, no sir. I have mail for you, sir, and the sender told me it was urgent.”
“You have mail?” Charles demands, already on his feet and towering over Radar with an instant intensity.
Radar lets out a yelp and tries to back away, but Charles follows him until the guy’s crowding up against the still. He nearly knocks a martini glass over, but BJ manages to reach over from his cot and catch it just this time.
“Oh, n-no sir! It’s just for BJ— um, for Mister Captain Hunnicutt sir—”
Whirling on his heel, Charles turns his fierce glare on BJ now instead. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Radar practically wilt with relief.
“How in the world did you get mail before the rest of us?”
BJ shrugs, and grins at the idea of having something to lord over him. “Now, Charles. Are you jealous?”
“Winchesters do not become jealous,” Charles spits out like the mere idea of it hurts him. “Call me inquisitive. Now answer the question.”
“All questions will be answered when the letter is presented. Radar?” BJ asks mildly, turning to the company clerk in question.
“Oh! Right. Let me just—” he starts to unzip his coats, and eventually pulls out the mail bag he usually uses, though it currently looks like a deflated balloon compared to how full it normally is when it has more than one letter in it. Radar hands BJ the letter, then leans forward like he’s sharing some kind of secret. “I figured this would keep it dry, sir.”
BJ grins at him, then fights the urge to kiss his cheek out of joy. “Thanks.”
An excitement runs through him at the sight of the envelope, at the exaggerated loops that Hawkeye put into his script; still, it’s undeniably his best friend’s handwriting, and the sight that’s both familiar and unfamiliar makes his heart start to race a little faster, as absolutely ridiculous as that is.
Charles makes absolutely no attempt to hide the fact that he’s completely peering over BJ’s shoulder, as he has to lean nearly halfway over the cot just to be able to read.
“Who in the hell is—” Charles mutters to himself, before going, “Oh.” His disappointment is practically palpable, and soon enough he’s moving back towards his side of the tent. “Of course. Of course you and Pierce are writing letters to each other, since clearly being attached at the hip is not enough for you two.” Shaking his head like he’s figured out a local mystery, Charles adds, “No wonder it managed to come in.”
BJ can’t do anything but grin brighter in response, even as he carefully slips his finger under the crease of the fold to open it.
“Have you figured out why they’re doing this, sir?” Radar asks, and when BJ looks up he sees that he’s addressing Charles. “I mean, I know I delivered them and all, but I don’t really get it myself.” He turns back to BJ. “You two are still on speaking terms, right?”
BJ opens his mouth to respond, but Charles cuts him off, speaking over his shoulder as he’s already glancing away and filing through his records. “I find that it is better for everyone’s own peace of mind to not try and unwind the intricate knot that is Pierce and Hunnicutt’s shared insanity.”
“Uh…” is Radar’s reply.
Another eye roll and another sigh, before Charles clarifies, “Nobody knows. Not even the two of them, I think.”
Once again, BJ’s response is just to smile.
***
Dear J.B.,
Hello from the city of Uijeongbu, Korea. I’m afraid you’ll have to forgive me for any water stains that might be on this paper by the time it gets to you— I promise I haven’t been crying, it simply gets so humid here that even the paper starts to sweat. I swear, sometimes so much sweat drips off my nose that I get the urge to put a bucket under it and call myself a fountain. That way if people throw pennies at me, I get to keep them, though I can’t say anything for granting the wish they make.
But enough about my bodily fluids, let’s mention our shared acquaintance, B.J. Now, you’ve referred to him as your friend. I regret to inform you that he’s actually my enemy. But you know what they say, a friend of my enemy’s my friend.
… That is how that saying goes, right? I’m suddenly rethinking a lot of my relationships in college.
Anyway, despite the many, many slights that B.J. has made against me, my personhood, and my family name, one thing he’s done right is put me in contact with you. Now you seem like a pretty upstanding guy. I’d almost say I don’t know how the two of you could possibly associate, considering how upstanding you seem, but just now as I’m writing this it’s hit me: you must make custom shoes for him, right? I know he’s struggled to find size 50 shoes in the past. It’s actually very generous of you to go out of your way to make those for him.
There is actually a job opening here— mine. Any time you’re willing to swap, just let me know. I know you said toes are your specialty, but I think you’ll find that heads are actually a lot like feet, just on the other end of you. Now, I’ve never been further north than Maine, but I imagine Alaska can’t be all too different, right? Maybe I can go over there and petition for it to become a state. What do you think?
Anyway, thanks for writing to me. Things get pretty boring here, in between all the blood and guts and rain. Getting a letter really breaks up the monotony, and all I had to do was promise to share some of my magazines with Radar to get him to mail this off to you. That being said, could you do me a favor? Send me a picture of yourself attached to your next letter. I’d love to know what you look like. If you do, I’ll send you one of my magazines next time.
Disrespectfully Yours,
Owleye Pierce
P.S. Call me ‘Owleye.’ My mother’s name is Benjamin.
P.P.S. My shoe size is 11. Do with that information what you will.
P.P.P.S. Can I call you Jeeb?
SUMMER.
On a warm, hazy night, nearly three fourths of the camp is crowded into the officer’s club. They’ve managed to shove in just about every stand fan the army would let them get their hands on, all plugged haphazardly into some rickety outlet or army generator or what have you and spinning lazily. The doors have been left wide open, in a desperate attempt to beg the breeze to blow through. It’s cooler in the evenings, at least, going from a desperate boiling to a mild sweltering, but it’s still hot.
BJ stands at the counter in about as few clothes as he can get away with in public, which mostly means a pair of shorts, some sandals, and the thinnest tank top he owns. With one hand he’s absently wiping at the bar counter with a rag, and with the other he holds his latest letter.
“Yoohoo, earth to Captain Hunnicutt. Anyone up there?”
He’s not sure quite how long it actually takes her to catch his attention, but from the combination of the slightly bemused and slightly judgemental look on her face that’s very special to one Margaret Houlihan, BJ can only imagine it’s taken quite a bit.
“I know you’re pretty tall,” Margaret continues, “but I didn’t realize you were quite tall enough to have your head all the way up in the clouds there.”
Sheepishly, he smiles at her. “Sorry about that. Can I get you anything?”
“Just a glass of water, please. I need to keep my wits about me before I go back to those hunters.” She throws a dirty look over her shoulder, where the poker game rages on with intensity.
“Glass of water, coming up.” BJ slings the rag over his shoulder and sets the letter down on the counter, careful to keep it far from the spill he failed to clean up completely in his distraction. “Though I’m afraid it’s gonna be pretty warm, considering we’re all out of ice.”
“Fantastic,” she deadpans, sounding absolutely not thrilled.
After setting down the glass in front of her, BJ raises his hands up in mock surrender. “Hey, don’t shoot the messenger— or the bartender.”
Margaret hovers by the bar just a few moments longer, clearly savoring the water despite its lukewarm temperature as she takes long sips from it. In the short span of silence BJ’s attention has already drifted back to the page in front of him, eyes eagerly drinking in his own reprieve.
“Must be one hell of a letter,” Margaret comments, drawing him out of his thoughts.
“Eh, nothing to write home about. But definitely something to write to Alaska about.”
Her eyebrows draw together, and BJ can see the gears turning behind her eyes before realization clearly dawns on her. That, and he can see the immediate mix of annoyance and ‘I should have known’ boredom that spreads across her expression too.
“One of those silly letters from Pierce, again? I already can barely believe you two don’t get sick of each other, and that’s before you two started writing to each other all the time.”
Honestly, BJ himself was pretty surprised that they’ve kept the tradition up, even after the army lifted their mail block weeks ago. Surprised, but not at all unhappy. He’s a little embarrassed to admit, even to himself, how much these letters cheer him up. It’s a silly game between the two of them, with these silly second identities, but that sense he’s gotten from the start— something familiar but new, something unique but comfortable— has only grown stronger, and it’s kept BJ in better spirits than normal. Even when they slowed down from writing letters every day to one set of correspondence a week, it’s still something to look forward to in the otherwise bleak emptiness that is the war. There’s something about pretending to be someone else, someone with fresh, unjaded eyes on the war, maybe even someone more free than BJ, less anxious, more able to be honest, that’s appealing. It’s also mildly terrifying.
Margaret’s still fixing him with that curious look, though, so BJ just chipperly replies, “Who’s to say we’re not sick of each other?”
That gets the blonde to roll her eyes, and after BJ tops off her glass of water she starts heading back to the table.
“Hey Beej!” Hawkeye calls from his spot at the table, where he’s surrounded by a stack of poker chips. “You going to be joining us any time this century?” Clearly his competitive ego has been massively stroked today, what with that bright, pearly grin on his face that looks like he’s a kid that just stole from a candy shop. Everyone else’s moods are even more sour than normal, clearly the discomfort of the heat only compounding their losses.
“Count me in next hand! I want to finish reading this letter first, before it becomes the only mortal possession I have left after you pack of hyenas rob me blind.”
The tension of the table is popped, though whether it’s at BJ’s joke or the promise of fresh meat for the poker carnage is hard to say.
“Works for me!” is Hawkeye’s response, and he goes back to trying to show off the new shuffling trick he’s been practicing.
BJ’s eyes linger on him a moment longer before he goes back to reading his letter and attempting to wipe up the counter again.
***
Dear Owleye,
The more you tell me about the war across the sea, the less I believe it. How did a smart, charismatic, talented guy like yourself end up wasting all of his prospects on becoming something as silly as a surgeon anyway? You would’ve made a great cobbler.
And not to mention the people you have to put up with. Yeesh! The things you’ve told me about B.J. these last few weeks have really made me question my friendship with him. Now that I’ve heard your side of the story, he sounds like a real knucklehead. It’s beyond me how you’ve put up with him for this long.
But look at me rattling on and on about him, when I should be addressing the very pressing questions you presented me with in your last letter. Well, now I don’t have a lot of page space left, and I’m afraid my letter isn’t going to make it all the way across the ocean to you if I make it too long. It’ll be too heavy, you know?
So, to keep it efficient, here are my answers, in order: yes, yes, no, sometimes, yes, only on the fifth Sunday of the month, no, a peach farmer. There. Did I get everything?
Otherwise, my days here in Alaska have been full of the same old. There’s a lot of snow boots to fix, and a lot of woodland creatures to scare away. Did you know moose are actually quite tall?
I hope you’re handling yourself well over there in Uijeongbu. Now, a few quick questions of my own and we can send this letter on its merry way:
- You say it gets really hot there. Have you tried leaving a metal tray outside and frying an egg on top with the sun? I guess you could call that a real Sunny Side Up…
- What’s the first thing you want to do when you get back home?
- What’s your favorite dinosaur?
I anxiously await your reply to these deeply time sensitive and pressing questions. The people need to know.
Lukewarm Regards,
J.B. Hunnicutt
P.S. I’m working on your custom shoes as we think. What would you prefer, diamond-and-gold trim or built-in springs to make you jump higher?
***
Hawkeye’s touch has always been casual. Easy. Freely given. The man laughs with his whole chest, just like he aches with it too. BJ knows this. BJ watches this.
Most days it keeps him sane. Sometimes it drives him mad.
Because he knows, he knows. BJ knows that Hawkeye’s touch is easy; he knows that the affection between them, as sincere and profound as it is, means differently to BJ than it does to Hawkeye, and he knows that those touches reflect that. When Hawkeye slings an arm around BJ’s shoulder to laugh, grabs at his hands to correct the way BJ is unfurling yarn for him, caresses at the stubble along BJ’s jaw to make a joke about BJ not having shaved lately— it’s Hawkeye having a laugh, and being his kind, loving, friendly self, the way he is with the others, Potter and Radar, Klinger and Margaret, even Mulcahy. Even Charles, sometimes.
BJ’s own feelings at the touch, the boyish stuttering of his pulse, the bursts of electricity under his skin, the lingering feeling behind his eyes… those are all BJ’s own selfish, unrequited desires, ones that he needs to keep quietly.
And for the most part, he keeps it to himself successfully. He knows how to put on a smile and act his most affable self. Rarely does he actually need to do that around Hawkeye, of course. Being around Hawkeye is typically easy. Being around Hawkeye is authentic. The only case in which BJ really does need to put up an act is in the context of when his heart gets ahead of itself.
This is one of those moments.
Hawkeye’s writing out his latest letter by balancing his trunk across his lap, and resting the piece of paper on top of that. He does this while sitting on BJ’s bed, with his legs slung across BJ’s lap, and his back pressed precariously against the thin, unstable ‘walls’ of the tent. With how long his legs are and how short the army-issued MASH twin beds are, Hawkeye’s legs dangle over the edge, his ankles haphazardly strewn against one of their wooden chairs. BJ remains pinned beneath him, doing his best to fold his laundry despite the fact that there’s a trunk and a tall man mostly in the way.
He doesn’t even know how they ended up like this, to be honest. Hawkeye had made some comment about being ‘cold,’ BJ had called him certifiably nuts, and then all 6 feet 2 inches of a black-haired, blue-eyed surgeon was crawling into his lap.
It’s too hot for this sort of closeness, the sweat lingering on each of them even as they once again don tank tops and shorts to try and deal with the summer weather, but BJ doesn’t have it in him to push Hawkeye off. He wouldn’t want to, in all honesty, even if they were boiling alive. So after putting up a few protests at first just for the sake of it, BJ’s given up and is content with poorly-folded laundry and the uncomfortableness of jamming his elbows into the trunk by accident as Hawkeye scribbles away his response.
“Oh, fantastic,” Charles deadpans, as he walks into the tent and beholds the sight of them. “They’re fusing. Perhaps you will be less annoying, when there’s only one of you left to irritate me.”
“You know what they say,” Hawkeye retorts automatically, a debonair grin already slung across his features. “One head is better than two— unless, of course, that head belongs to one Charles Emerson Winchester III. Then a ball of yarn would be better.”
“More friendly, too,” BJ chimes in.
“Sexier, most likely.”
Charles lets out a groan, grabs his bathrobe and a few other things, and heads out the door with a tetchy, “Goodbye, hydra. May you not grow any more halfwitted heads while I’m away,” over his shoulder.
“I think he likes us,” BJ says, the moment the door to the swamp slams shut behind the man.
“I think he’s ready to propose,” Hawkeye replies.
They both let out some snickers, and then go back to their tasks in companionable silence.
That is, until Hawkeye breaks the silence by swatting BJ’s shoulder and going, “Hey! No peeking! Otherwise I’m going to tattle on you for cheating off my test answers.”
Having been caught trying to sneak a glance at Hawkeye’s (or rather, Owleye’s) latest letter, BJ leans back and puts his hands up, palm-forward, in defeat. “Woah, woah, sorry! Can’t blame a guy for trying.”
“I can and I will blame a guy for trying— what’s the point of letters if you read them before they’re even mailed?”
“It’s not my fault you’re writing right under my nose!”
“I didn’t think you could see anything with that caterpillar under your noses.” Hawkeye reaches out and tugs at BJ’s mustache, not hard enough to hurt but just enough to put some pressure on it that makes heat go down straight to BJ’s toes. Oh.
Hawkeye’s still looking at him, with those keen eyes, so BJ remembers to say something funny, something easy and joking. “I’ve actually got a second set of eyes underneath all the fuzz, so it makes seeing things pretty easy.”
“That makes sense. Well, if you’re gonna cheat off some answers then maybe pick someone else’s test, okay? I was a straight F student in school.”
“Sir yes sir!” BJ does a salute with his left hand, straight to his mustache.
Hawkeye laughs pleasantly, then goes back to writing his letter, though notably this time he’s hunched over so that his shoulders block the paper from BJ’s line of sight.
***
Dear J.B.,
Were you writing your latest letter outside? I swear I see the remains of some snowflakes from Alaska on those pages. Hey, next time can you do me a favor? Send me a snowman, bottled up in a jar. If it’s water by the time it gets here I’ll no longer believe in the magic of Christmas. Summer over there still means cold, right? I don’t really know how weather works, though I don’t need to. Over here’s there’s only four types of it: rain, HEAT, cold rain, subzero. I imagine in Alaska it’s just cold, cold, cold.
… Maybe I should see if I can pilfer some sort of book on geography while I’m here.
Now, to address some of your points. I think I might be giving B.J. a bit of an unfair time, in my letters to you. It’s not really fair when he’s not here to defend himself. He’s actually a pretty stand-up guy, though you’ll have to forgive me for sounding 65 years old when I say it like that. I guess I just don’t know how to compliment someone like B.J. How do you compliment the ocean, you know? It’s vast. Necessary. Unknowable, familiar, it keeps you tethered while also threatening to pull you under… Eh, well, that’s not great either. You’ll have to forgive me a second time— I’m a doctor, after all, not a poet. What a waste of a degree!
Anyway, on to more of your points. A peach farmer! I could definitely see that. You seem like the type. And ‘sometimes’?? I find that hard to believe.
Next, your questions (by the way, I’ve gotten really good at this letter stuff, huh? And they say doctors have crappy handwriting). Since you answered yours efficiently, I’ll try to return the favor. They ration out letters by the word count here in the army, I’m afraid. Ahem:
- Har har. You’re hilarious. (Please picture me throwing myself into a river).
- Absolutely everything and nothing. First, I’m going to kiss the ground I land on. Then I’m going to hug my dad, and promptly pass out in my bed (my REAL bed!) for about 25 years. Then I’ll take a walk outside to see what’s changed, and after that I’ll probably call my buddy B.J. up, and if he can still stand me, he’ll teleport over (this is the future, if you’ll remember, so I’m sure they’ll have invented teleportation by then) and I’ll show him the sights. Like the beach! He’s only seen a West Coast beach, can you imagine that? Well, I guess you only have too. I’m telling you, East beaches are a dream.
- Tyrannosaurus rex. They were apparently tall and had tiny arms, which was the opposite of me as a kid, so I yearned to be like them. I was this short little thing that had hands to my elbows, it felt like. Also, my least favorite dinosaur? Tyrannosaurus rex. That sucker made me lose a spelling bee!
I’ll be expecting that snowman shortly. As well as that newspaper clipping you promised me ages ago and haven’t sent over yet— I don’t forget these things!
Love, Peace, and Chicken Grease,
Owleye Pierce
P.S. to the intelligence agent reading this before it gets shipped off (hello, Flagg) congratulations: you’ve just uncovered some deeply coveted information. We can end the war now! Who knew the answer was dinosaurs all along?
FALL.
The wind howls loudly, making the wooden walls of the Post Op tremble. Thankfully this building is just about the sturdiest one in the MASH unit, though that isn’t a very tall bar to surpass. At least BJ doesn’t have to worry about a wall falling on one of his patients, almost all of whom are sleeping soundly despite the howling weather outside. The morphine surely helps, as does the exhaustion.
BJ sits at the little desk tucked away in the corner of the room, keeping the lamp at his desk pointed low as not to disturb anybody. Although, BJ muses to himself, maybe there isn’t much need to worry.
He glances over at the bed of the only awake patient, who's having a hushed but clearly captivating conversation with Nurse Kellye, sitting at his bedside. She has a clipboard in her lap but it's long forgotten. The patient says something, Kellye has to laugh into her hand to keep it quiet, and the soldier stares at her like she’s made of stars.
BJ feels fond, and then homesick, and then lovesick. The patient looks quite a bit like Hawkeye, with tousled black hair and intense look in his eyes.
The thought makes BJ sigh. He glances away, decides to give the young lovebirds their privacy, and back to his letter. For the first time in a while, he feels stuck, unsure of what to write or what to say. He doesn’t quite know how they got here, but what started as BJ gently poking fun at himself through his letters had led to Hawkeye (or ‘Owleye’ to be exact— it’s easier, sometimes, to pretend that they really are these different people, and it’s harder sometimes too) showering BJ with an onslaught of praise. Compliments now come his way left and right, on anything and everything and nothing that BJ could imagine: looks, skills, humor, habits, even the order in which he eats his food.
BJ hadn’t realized Hawkeye’s been paying such close attention all this time. Some of these things— a lot of them— are things BJ hadn’t even realized about himself.
Of course he’s tried paying the compliments back, since BJ has an endless well of positive things he could say about his best friend, but Hawkeye’s a master at deflecting, even in letters. Maybe particularly so, in letters, where there’s this extra step between them, this secondary clause of deniability.
So here BJ sits, in a mostly quiet Post Op, eyes staring down at a blank page under strained lamp light, and he tries to pretend his cheeks aren’t burning as he struggles to think of what to write in his latest letter.
***
Dear Owleye,
I’m a man of my word, and I have to admit when I’m wrong— that’s very important in my line of business, you see. What would happen if I gave a baby size 13 shoes, and was too stubborn to remake them? So in this case, I’ll be honest: I wasn’t too keen on our mutual “B.J.” at first, but over the last few weeks you’ve really brought me around on the guy. So I guess I’ve come full circle, and now he and I can be friends again. Clearly no one can be that bad, if you’ve got so many nice things to say about them.
But on to the more important things in life: I tried that shampoo you recommended, and my hair has never been softer. And if you remember that drawing I sent you months ago, I have hair all the way down to my knees, so there’s a lot of it to be soft!
What about you? Have you tried that cocktail I suggested? I’m telling you, I know ground up pound cake in a glass full of rum might not sound delicious but it can actually be quite nice if you give it a try on a cold, windy day— which I could imagine it is, there, now! Personally, I’m writing to you under a mountain of snow already, so please forgive me if my handwriting looks a bit differently than normal. I’m having a moose jot down my dictation, and Moose College is known for having an absolutely abysmal penmanship program.
Let me know how that drink treats you, and also let me know how that patient you mentioned in your last letter is doing. It sounds like you’re a pretty tip-top sawbones, so I’m sure he’s doing well.
Yours, Mine, Everyone’s, and No One’s,
J.B. Hunnicutt
P.S. I’ve finally finished that pair of shoes I promised you. Go ask your company clerk for them, I think he’s hiding them in his office for me.
P.P.S. Please forgive any moose-marks on the shoes.
***
BJ lays in bed at night and he wants. He wonders what it would feel like to hold someone— a particular someone— in his arms, or be held. It’s an ache and it’s somehow both a garden and a wound, this feeling he has, that he has a name for but not the courage to admit it. It grows and flourishes within him, yes, and at the same time it festers and rots as it sits inside him with nowhere to go.
No time is that more apparent than now, as he lies in bed aching with Hawkeye only a couple of feet away.
It’s somehow both too far and too close.
Like those letters.
Like Alaska.
The nights are getting colder, much colder, even when this isn’t nearly the worst of it yet, and BJ’s having trouble falling asleep. He shifts, restless, trying to lay on his back and pretend he can see the stars somewhere in the roof of the Swamp, and then turning on his side and settling on staring at the shadows of Hawkeye’s sleeping form instead.
It’s cowardly to do it like this, of course, to yearn in the dead of night when he has the shadows to make excuses with, but it’s also cowardly to write letters like he has been, and they’ve kept that up for a while now.
BJ’s not sure quite how long he lays like that. He dozes in and out, though never truly manages to fall asleep. It’s probably because of that that he’s still staring at the vague lump that is Hawkeye’s curled up figure when he notices the man jolt awake. It’s not a dramatic awakening, not as serious as all of them have had at one point or another, when the violence and the viscera gets to be too much that it seeps into one’s subconscious, but there’s a bit of a wheeze in Hawkeye’s failed attempts at steady breathing, and BJ’s heart aches.
“Hawk,” he croaks out, voice crackly from being unused for the last few hours. “Doing alright?”
A stupid question for any of them here in the 4077, in the entire war, but sometimes it’s important to ask just for the sake of asking. There’s a mercy, a shred of normalcy, in pretending like the answer to that question isn’t always going to be a resounding ‘No.’
“Spiffy,” Hawkeye says, at a whisper, and his voice is also strained but not just because of the sleep. “Like a million bucks, if nine hundred and ninety-nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine of those dollars were owed to some skeevy loan shark, and you’re left with only a buck to your name.”
They’ve been through this dance enough— they know the steps, the variations.
And so BJ asks, “Want to talk about it?”
The silence that follows as Hawkeye thinks it over is punctuated only by the nasally snoring of Charles. In truth, Hawkeye and BJ both pretend it bothers them more than it does. Somewhere along the way, that constant became almost soothing, like some aristocratic white noise. Right now it does the same, keeping the silence from getting awkward.
“It’s damn cold, ” is Hawkeye’s response, which BJ knows means ‘No.’
For just a moment, possibility scatters through BJ’s thoughts like marbles, and it puts a twitch in his fingers, a skip in the vein along his throat.
Then, before he can over think it too hard, he raises up his hand, lifts up the thin thing that the army calls a ‘winter blanket’ and goes for casual as he says, “C’mere then.”
Though he can’t see it, BJ swears he hears Hawkeye blink.
If this were any other time, BJ’s sure that Hawkeye would crack some kind of joke, that they’d go back and forth with affectionate, well-practiced verbal sparring for 10 minutes before caving in. The rituals are intricate, and all that. But it’s not like any other time, and BJ can tell from the sharp edges that the tense set of Hawkeye’s shoulders are cutting out against the shadows that the nightmare has rattled Hawkeye more than he wants to admit right now.
So BJ makes a little motion with his hand, ruffling the blanket to beckon him over, and when Hawkeye’s joints creak with the effort of standing, BJ scoots back to make room for him in the bed.
Hawkeye trudges along his own blanket, lays it on top of them, and then crawls in, bony joints and soft flesh sewn together in tandem as the two of their bodies line up.
Treacherously, BJ’s heart thuds just a little louder— which is hilarious considering this isn’t even the first time they’ve done this. Korea really does get cold, and the combination of a second set of body heat and blankets really is no joke. But still, still, BJ gets nervous every time, even as another part of him elates.
A garden and a wound.
Both quiet down, just like the rest of Korea does, as the two of them settle.
BJ carefully strews an arm across Hawkeye’s mid-section, and Hawkey shoves his feet backwards to tangle with BJ’s. It’s warm, so much warmer than it was a mere minute ago, and BJ can feel a calm washing over him. Based on the even breathing of the man in his arms, he thinks the feeling is mutual.
“Be honest,” Hawkeye whispers at one point, as the two of them are on the verge of dozing off. “You just want me for my extra blanket.”
If only you knew, BJ thinks.
What he says is, “Caught me red-handed.”
Hawkeye falls asleep soon after that; when BJ follows suit, he sees the stars behind his eyes.
On the chair next to their sleeping forms, lying slightly askew but illuminated by the moonlight, is the latest letter from their exchange.
***
Dear J.B.,
Wow! Some Alaskan shoes from my favorite Alaskan cobbler! And what’s even more astounding is they look just like those shoes I saw in a little shop window in Tokyo, last time I got some R&R, that I wouldn’t shut up to my bunkmates about. Weird how that happens— you must have read my mind.
Thank you, Jeeb. I’ll never take them off. This will, of course, get problematic in the showers, but I’ll figure something out.
Now, about the pound cake. I tried it, having to borrow some pound cake mailed from home from our esteemed Colonel Potter. If I could send you a mental image of the face he made when I took Mildred’s pound cake, smushed it up, and put it in a glass of whiskey, I would. It was priceless, and also terrifying.
The drink itself was alright! Weirdly chunky, but had a nice flavor to it. Potter is, however, convinced that I’m certifiably insane, and you are too. Having overheard that conversation Klinger— you remember Klinger— is now convinced that making weird cocktails will get him that Section 8, so he’s managed to take the entire officer’s club hostage. I thought you’d appreciate hearing a bit of the mayhem you’ve caused overseas.
As for that patient, Sergeant Thomas… I’m afraid after the surgery he can no longer play the trumpet. The good news is, he couldn’t play it beforehand, either! His leg will heal just fine, since we got to him quick enough, and he shouldn’t even need a cane, if it all sets well. But that’s a big ‘if.’ I’ve told him to stop entering himself in three-legged races, but I’m afraid the boy’s obsessed.
As for you, tell your moose to get better handwriting. It took me nearly a week just to decipher your letter alone! Also, have you ever had any really weird dreams? The other night I dreamt I was a socerball, floating in the ocean… I wonder what that means.
Probably that I’m very off-sides! Har har.
Frequently,
Owleye Pierce
WINTER.
What does one get their best friend for the holidays?
Normally that isn’t too hard, especially when friends with Hawkeye. BJ knows him, knows what he likes, and not just the easy things. There’s booze and sexy magazines, of course, but that’s just scratching the surface.
There are things BJ can get with just one well-planned R&R trip to Seoul or Tokyo: civilian clothes made of comfortable fabrics and bright colors, soaps and shampoos that smell like mint and lavender, spools of yarn for his latest project, even random gadgets and knick-knacks that BJ could find while wandering from store to store.
Those are all great, but he can go beyond that, too, and try to get pieces of the things Hawkeye really wants, and truly what everyone wants: home. BJ could place a long distance call to ask Mr. Pierce Senior to send over some of Hawkeye’s favorite socks and books from home; if he does it now, it should get to Korea in time for Christmas. He could ask Rosie if she knew any locals who would be willing to trade supplies or money with BJ in exchanged for a home-cooked meal, just to give Hawkeye some kind of break from the monotony of army “food.” None of these are necessarily bad ideas, but none of them feel like enough either.
Because here’s the dilemma: what to get one’s best friend for the holidays? Not really a hard feat. What to get one’s best friend that they are secretly desperately in love with for the holidays? Absolutely impossible.
What gift is both enough to express BJ’s immeasurable love and appreciation for Hawkeye, but also not so much that it immediately sets his unwanted heart on a glass platter?
BJ hasn’t figured out the answer to that question yet. He’s gone to just about everyone in camp except the head surgeon himself, except BJ can’t actually mention the love part of the conundrum for fear of being too known, for fear of being discovered, so everyone ends up giving vague, mildly useless advice.
‘It’s the thought that counts.’
‘Get him something he can get a lot of use out of.’
‘He’ll love whatever you end up choosing for him.’
All of it is well-intentioned, and none of it is particularly helpful to BJ in this moment.
BJ’s always been someone that starts planning for the holidays early, which is normally something he considers a positive quality in himself, but has currently left him agonizing over this for weeks. The cold days get colder, the wind gets harsher, and snow starts to fall more and more often, and before BJ knows it Fall turns to Winter and he’s still no closer to having an answer.
Currently, he’s looking for it at the bottom of this rum bottle. It hasn’t given him any insight yet, but BJ has hope.
The door to the officer’s club quickly swings open and then shut again.
“Oh boy. He still drunk as a skunk, Father?” BJ hears Klinger ask, through chattering teeth.
After a sigh from the priest’s spot at the piano bench and a quieting of the song he was stumbling his way through, Mulcahy says, “I’m afraid so.”
“Well, I’ve brought some stuff from the kitchen,” Klinger replies. There’s the sound of some rustling and then maybe footsteps, though it’s hard to make out the more background noises through the thick haze that the alcohol’s put between BJ’s ears. “I had to trade my next couple days off for this stuff, but I s’pose it’s worth it. Oh, the things we do for friendship!”
“That’s very kind of you.”
Suddenly there’s half a loaf of bread swimming around BJ’s eyeline, and if he tilts his head and fights off the wave of dizziness that that motion causes, he can follow the loaf of bread to a gloved hand, attached to the arm of a thick coat, attached to a certain hairy corporal.
“Ahhh,” BJ slurs, as he swats away the bread like it’s a fly buzzing around his face. “How kind of you to come back and join us, Corporal Klaxwell Q. Minger. Wait. Morporal Qaxwell K. Cinger. Uh…. Klingwell…Maxer…”
“Geez louise.” Klinger lets out a low whistle. “Just how drunk are you? I’ve been gone for 15 minutes!”
“He was already quite intoxicated before you left,” Mulcahy chimes in.
“Yeah, but this much? Oy— stop it.” Klinger bats away the hand that BJ’s been trying to use to bat away the bread. “If you drop this on the floor I’ll blackmail Colonel Potter into putting you on latrine duty for the next few weeks. You don’t know what this cost me!”
“Your virginity?” BJ asks around a hiccup.
An eye roll. “Please, you wish. Oh— sorry, Father.”
BJ hiccups again, and slurs out a “Sorry, Father.”
“If you want to make it up to me, eat the bread that Klinger so kindly brought. It should help soak up at least some of the alcohol in your system.
“Although I doubt there’s enough bread in Korea to soak up all of it,” Klinger tacks on.
“That would certainly require a miracle.”
BJ has still been trying, unsuccessfully, to swat away the bread, but eventually Klinger gets annoyed enough that he rips off a piece and practically shoves it in his mouth.
“You’ll get crumbs in m’mustache!” BJ protests, even as he chews.
“And if you keep drinking on an empty stomach you’ll get vomit all over Post Op tomorrow that I’ll probably be forced to clean up, so eat up, Hunnicutt.”
Too tired and too fuzzy around the edges to protest once the first piece of bread has been chewed, BJ keeps on eating until the whole half loaf is done. There’s also a half-empty jar of jam to go along with it, and if BJ was sober he’d marvel at where Klinger found this. He isn’t, though, so he just swirls around the sweet, fruity taste in his mouth and keeps groaning as he thinks about his current problem.
At some point Klinger and Mulcahy— the only other people in the officer’s club, since everyone else is either on duty or huddled up around a heater somewhere— break off into easy conversation, hushed enough that BJ doesn’t even bother trying to eavesdrop.
When he’s finished eating BJ turns his head to look over his shoulder and make some kind of gesturing hand motion, saying ‘Ta-dah’ as if to show off finishing his food, but the dizziness he already feels combined with the uncoordinated motion and the unsteady stool beneath him instead sends BJ sprawling out from beneath himself with a yelp.
“Be careful—”
“Aw jeez, BJ—”
Mulcahy and Klinger both jump to catch him, and by some actual miracle manage to plant both sets of their hands on BJ’s shoulders to keep him from falling off the stool.
“Th’nk’you, gentleman and ladies…” is BJ’s response, as the two of them manage to herd him out of the stool and onto another, lower and steadier, chair tucked into one of the regular tables.
BJ immediately goes to plant his head on the table, appreciating the steady weight of it beneath him, but then he sees the piece of paper beneath him with scratched out gift ideas that had forced him towards the bar in an attempt to drink his problems away in the first place.
“All this over a lousy gift,” he hears Klinger groan, as he and Mulcahy sit in the other two open chairs at the table.
“I simply don’t understand why none of your other ideas are enough,” Mulcahy says, sympathy tugging at his voice. “I think that soap you bought in Tokyo was lovely.”
“And the letter opener shaped like a sword!” Klinger adds. “That’ll make Hawkeye feel like a real King Arthur type, he’ll love it!”
BJ’s already shaking his head before they finish talking, too drunk to stop himself from letting out a tsk tsk tsk noise. “No, no, no, you guys don’t get it. It’s not enough— it’s too— it’s just—” he makes a big motion with his hands, like that could explain everything. “Need s’mthin more… more special, ‘n honest… but also not too…”
Silence follows, as BJ trails off.
After a few moments, Mulcahy breaks it. “Well, have you considered writing him a letter?”
“Letter? Dunno about that…”
“Yeah,” Klinger says, voice skeptical. “I’m with BJ on this one. They practically write each other all the time already, what’ll make this feel special?”
“That’s true, of course, but it’s not exactly them writing each other letters, right? It’s those personas they made up. So,” and at this Mulcahy adjusts his glasses and then looks back at BJ, eyes kind but also sharp, like they can see right through him but don’t actually mind what they find there. “Why don’t you, BJ, write Hawkeye a letter, about whatever it is you’d like to say to him. It will feel honest and special simply coming from you, and not this J.B. persona.”
“From me…” BJ echoes, as the gears start (as greased with alcohol as they are) turning in his head. “Tha’s a good idea Father!”
“I’m happy to hear that. How about we get you somewhere warm and sober first, though, hm?”
“Yeah, alright…”
Klinger looks between the two of them, eyebrows furrowed until he seems to give up on a shrug. “I still don’t really get the difference, but if it gets BJ to bed then I’m not complaining. Come on, up we go, oh Tall One.”
They each grab BJ by the arm, and after a bit more shepherding (a joke which BJ points out, and Mulcahy does chuckle at) BJ finds himself back in the swamp, alone.
Klinger and Mulcahy stir up the coals in the central heater before they go, clearly not trusting BJ to not burn down the entire tent in his current state, and in the morning he’ll be grateful for it. However, right now, with Hawkeye on Post Op duty, BJ’s one track mind is set on writing the perfect letter. He stumbles over to his desk, pulls out a pen and paper, and starts writing, even as the words blur together in front of him.
***
Dear Hawkeye,
You must be thinking to yourself: “did I read the name on that return address wrong? Why is B.J. writing me a letter when he’s barely five feet away from me at all times? This guy must be crazy.” Well, I don’t know if you’d be wrong. I think I am going maybe actuall y potentially crazy, because the craziest thing’s ben been happening to me this year: I’m making myself jealous.
Nuts, right?!
You see, earlier this year I thought to myself “let me cheer up my friend by writing him a letter, except I’ll put on some kind of goofy persona to make it less vulne more fun,” and then we kept on writing each other even after the mailcame back. And writing and writing and writing. And it really did give me something to look forwad too— still does, mostly— for months and months. And then. I don’t know what happened, but somehow I got jealous at this persona. At J.B., and all the things you were talking about and admitting and. I don’t even know what, but. Jealous! At myself! Can you believe that?
I don’t know what I’m trying to say here. I’m not even going to let you see this letter, probably, unless it’s balled up and scratched out at the bottom of the trash somewhere, but i’m currently not the most sober brass in the 4077th and i can’t decide on a damn christmas gift for you, or if i do have enough already or if it’s even too much even though everything always feels so little when i try to so I thought to myself “well if Hawkeye likes those J.B. letters so much maybe I can write him one.” As if I wasn’t the one writing those same letters in the first place.
Something’s wrong with me, right?
Cause I’ll tell you what else, there has to be something wrong with a fella who’s made the closest, most sincere friendship in his entire life and makes it so he can’t even enjoy that fully without guilt properly because he’s falle an idiot. An idiot who keeps staring at blue blue eyes and thinking “sinatra’s got nothing on him”, and listening to loud laughs that never fail to make you want to laugh along even when you also want to put your head through a wall, and just. Thinking. About maine, and lobsters, and how absolutely brilliant you’d look under the good some california sun would do for his pasty pale lov best friend.
Anyway, merry christmas. Here’s the last part of my gift to you, i guess, or the first depending on the order you open it in: a drunken, full half-hearted letter that i’m going to go chuck in the fireplace now. After i rest my head for a minute…
Sincerely yours,
B.J.
P.S. I'm in love with you. Isn't that the craziest thing? Or maybe it's the most sane thing about this place.
***
It’s Christmas Eve at the 4077.
As much as this war is an awful, bloody mess that’s doing awful, bloody things to this country and all the people in it, there are moments of kindness. Little pockets of joy. Not because of the war, of course. Never that. But in spite of it. That’s how humanity is, after all, BJ muses often. Full of spite, and love, and pockets of kindness in between the terribleness.
Grass through concrete, and all those things.
If there is any example of human love managing to shine through human adversity, it's right here in the warm confines of the 4077’s mess tent. A paper banner hung over the door in Father Mulcahy’s distinctly pleasant handwriting reads ‘MERRY CHRISTMAS, 4077’ and watches over their festivities; a half-dead tree with home-made decorations and tinsel (BJ isn’t sure where they got any of it, but he’ll never underestimate Radar’s bartering skills) stands in the corner; everyone is milling about and holding some mug of something warm in their hands, most of which contain powdered-milk hot chocolate and some kind of liquor.
Someone’s dragged the piano over from the officer’s club, and Mulcahy is currently taking a break from trying to play Silent Night to watch the gift-giving festivities. Hawkeye stands at the tree with a big red hat on and a paper stuck to his chest that says ‘SANTA’S HELPER.’ He shines nearly as brightly as the metallic angel tree topper that Mulcahy procured from somewhere, with his toothy smile and red cheeks.
“Okay, everyone, drumroll please!”
The tent’s occupants give a hearty attempt at making as much noise as possible with a variety of fist and feet stomping. From some corner, BJ thinks he hears Klinger let out a whistle loud enough to stop traffic.
“Wow, okay!” Hawkeye laughs, plugging his ears half-heartedly. “I don’t know how we managed to ship a live band in, but you guys are going to give the local elephants a run for their money!”
A chuckle rolls through the room.
Hawkeye adds, “Thank you, thank you! I’ll be here all war— unless, of course, one of these nifty little gifts is a ticket home early?” He blinks an overexaggerated set of puppy dog eyes over at Colonel Potter, who fondly rolls his own eyes in response.
“Get on with it, Pierce, before I draft you for the next war!”
That gets a much louder laugh from the room, even as Hawkeye clutches at his heart and pretends to stagger backwards, nearly tipping over the tree in the process. “Alas, I must do as my master commands! Onwards with the holiday spirit.” He picks up a neatly wrapped box and reads the label. “It seems like this next one is for everyone’s favorite fashionista…”
From where BJ sits next to him on one of the long mess hall tables, he bumps his shoulder gently into Potter’s and whispers, “Psst, Colonel, if you’re going to draft Hawk again, do me a favor and please wait for the next next war. He promised to teach me how to eat lobster first.”
Potter chuckles, though much more warmly than before. He’s got a slightly lopsided smile tugging at his laugh lines, which lets BJ know there’s real affection behind his otherwise dry tone. “I’ll keep that in mind, Son.”
When BJ turns his focus back to the festivities, he sees Klinger getting misty-eyed over what looks like a cocktail dress— it looks very expensive, but elegant instead of gaudy.
Definitely a Charles gift, though the man has a slightly pinched look on his face. “It was my sister Honoria’s.” A pause. “She wants me to mail her a photo of you in it, though where she expects me to procure a camera from in this military-sanctioned hell is beyond me.”
“We’ll figure something out!” is Klinger’s beaming reply. “Thanks, Charles.”
Charles’ expression manages to be an endearing amount of annoyed and pleased in equal measure, as he simply tips his head in response.
Then Klinger holds the dress against his body, and the dark green fabric nearly trails on the ground. “Your sister’s a real tall lady, isn’t she?”
Charles simply shrugs. “I figured you can hem it.”
Never one to back down from a challenge, Klinger grins back wider. “You bet your Bostonian butt I can.”
Charles groans again, but drops it instead of retorting. That, in and of itself, is a Christmas miracle.
“Let’ see…” Hawkeye wiggles his fingers at the dwindling pile of presents, before deciding on a medium sized box with neat wrapping. “This next one’s for… Oh! Little old me? That’s exciting.” There’s a teasing round of groans and jeers, and Hawkeye puts on a dramatic air. “Now don’t think I’m cheating here! I am, of course, but don’t think it!”
Someone pulls out a chair for Hawkeye, and he sits down with a glee of laughter as he starts to open the box. From across the room BJ manages to keep his poker face on and grin hidden, recognizing his own package.
Then his face falls completely.
“Ooh, how proper,” Hawkeye announces to the room, as he slides the wrapping paper off and notices a letter sitting on top of the box. “This workshop elf included a letter.”
If it were possible to freeze from the inside out, then BJ thinks he’d be doing it right now, as he recognizes, even from this distance, the sloppy facsimile of his own hand-writing on that letter, and the hazy memories of that awful, drunken night come back to him.
He had woken up with a massive headache, a wrapped Christmas gift box that had been hiding near-done under his bed for weeks, and vague foggy sense of what had to have been a terrible, alcohol-induced dream.
Now, belatedly, he realizes all of that was real.
Agonizing over feeling like his gifts weren’t enough. Drinking himself stupid in the officer’s club. Mulcahy’s encouraging words, Klinger’s bartered food… and worst of all, that letter with his unfiltered, inebriated, painfully honest feelings spilled out across the page like a splatter of blood.
BJ only realizes that all of the color has drained out of his face— his body— when Potter fixes him with a concerned, brow-furrowed look.
“You okay there, Hunnicutt?” he whispers, as Hawkeye starts tearing open the envelope.
“Yeah— I just— I need some—” BJ’s stumbling up from the table and out the door before he can wait around for his brain to finish that sentence, because there isn’t time. At any moment Hawkeye’s going to finish opening that envelope, is going to read the letter and know.
He’s going to know.
BJ thinks he’s going to be sick.
The next thing he knows BJ is leaning back heavily against the exterior wall of Post Op, letting the biting wind chip away at his nose, his face, his hands. His heart rate’s kicking at a thousand miles a minute and there’s this painful noise in his ears, constricting his brain and squeezing the air out of his windpipes. Letting the freezing air keep him focused on the sensations in his body, BJ draws himself out of his own thoughts and does his best to go through the breathing exercise Sydney had taught him months ago.
Inhale, 1, 2, 3, 4…
Hold, 1, 2, 3, 4…
Exhale, 1, 2, 3, 4…
Eventually the fuzzy edges to his vision recede as the terror-filled grip around BJ’s chest releases about an inch or two. He still feels nauseous and his pulse isn’t quite back to normal, but it’s something. It’s enough, or at least it has to be, because a few moments later BJ hears the telltale sound of boots crunching against snow, and he knows without having to look up that that gait is Hawkeye’s.
Thick, scuffed, black boots stop in BJ’s field of vision. The silence stretches on for a moment, but BJ doesn’t look up because he’s a coward. He does, however, break the silence because he is a masochist, apparently.
“Hey there, Santa Clause, I appreciate the visit and all but won’t the kids miss you if you’re not there handing out gifts?”
“They’ll manage,” is Hawkeye’s uncharacteristically short and humorless reply, and BJ takes that as bad sign.
He is, once again, a coward, so he doesn’t pick up the conversation again, but he is also still a masochist, so he does trail his eyes up to look up into Hawkeye’s face.
Look up into Hawkeye’s face— that’s a rare enough angle, considering they’re practically the same height, but BJ’s slouching enough against the wall that that’s no longer the case. Hawkeye’s stubble splashes handsomely across his jaw and cheeks, adding a razor’s edge to the weight of his eyes, steel gray and filled with a gaze that’s fitting of his last name.
“Did you mean what you wrote?” Hawkeye gestures to the letter in his hand as he asks, which is the first time BJ notices that he’s carrying it.
Absently, BJ also realizes that it’s started snowing lightly at one point or another, and Hawkeye’s holding the letter against his chest in a way that shields it from the weather.
“Do you want to know?”
A long pause follows, where BJ swears that Hawkeye sees straight through him, through the jokes and amiable smiles, straight into the ugly, festering core that BJ wants to hide from the world.
“Do you want me to know?”
Yes, BJ thinks. But also no. Maybe. I don’t know. He ends up saying nothing, which is somehow more telling.
The resumed silence is a pregnant one, of a thousand things left said and unsaid. In the distance there’s the sounds of merriment still radiating from the mess tent, and BJ just can’t take it anymore. So instead of saying anything, instead of talking his way out of it or trying to rationalize it, but also instead of confessing the weight of these feelings he’s been carrying around with him for which no words actually feel like enough despite the feeble and drunken attempts of a letter, BJ just stares at Hawkeye. He drops all pretense, all attempts at a poker face, and just stares at the man he’s been in love with for longer than he thinks he knows, longer than he thinks they’ve known each other, because this love is so big and all consuming that it has to have been born with him, with the oxygen and blood that make up his body.
So he stares, and stares, and lets Hawkeye do with that gaze what he will.
In the next moment Hawkeye is pushing BJ further against the wall and fitting their lips together in the process. BJ’s body is moving before his mind catches up, one hand fitting itself into the small of Hawkeye’s back and the other slipping through his hair, like he could hold him there forever.
When BJ’s brain does catch up he’s filled with awe, desire, confusion, fear, love, all so overwhelming in him that it’s all he can do to kiss Hawkeye deeper, to pull Hawkeye closer, to clench his fingers tighter around Hawkeye’s back, lightly tugging at the strands of Hawkeye’s hair in his fingers. Hawkeye groans in response and crowds BJ further up against the wall, slipping his tongue into BJ’s mouth like the universe itself put it there, and for all BJ’s concerned it did because in this moment (and probably before this moment, too) Hawkeye is the universe— beautiful, encompassing, unknowable.
Then Hawkeye pulls back just enough to look at him, to really look and also show awe and surprise and affection; the universe comes crashing back into place until he’s just Hawkeye again, and BJ loves that even more.
“If it isn’t terribly obvious,” Hawkeye says, voice low and crackling slightly in a way that is deeply, deeply satisfying, “I feel the same way.”
“‘S that so?” BJ replies, feeling the smug, satisfied, adoring smile on his lips.
“What, you don’t believe me?”
BJ shrugs. “I could use some more convincing.”
Hawkeye grins back, and then he’s kissing him again like the whole world will stop turning on its axis if he doesn’t.
By the time they break apart again they’re both panting and BJ’s ears and face are numb with the cold, but he can’t quite bring it in him to care.
Everything in Korea has always felt slightly more manageable with Hawkeye beside him, and the weather tonight is no different.
“Want to come back to my place?” Hawkeye wiggles his eyebrows, getting a laugh out of BJ. “I have two nasty roommates but I think they’ll be out for a while tonight.”
“Won’t the kids miss their gift giver?”
This time it’s Hawkeye’s turn to shrug, and for the first time BJ notices that he’s no longer wearing the Santa hat. “I think they’ll manage. I heard Santa shipped in a 5’4” substitute all the way from Iowa.”
BJ whistles. “Iowa! That’s a long distance.”
“Longer than Alaska.”
***
Dear J.B.,
It’s with a heavy heart that I write to you this letter; I’m afraid I’ve met someone, and that someone is very, very special, and also very, very easily jealous. I’m afraid that I can’t keep being your penpal, for fear of igniting my lover’s wrath.
However, I do want to take the time to say that this friendship— and perhaps sometimes perhaps flirtation?— with you has been a great pleasure, and keeping up correspondence with you has genuinely been one of the things that has kept me from losing myself in my own head while spending another year in this awful, awful war.
So, even though we can’t be penpals anymore, I want you to know that you’re my favorite cobbler. Maybe one day I can convince my lover to visit Alaska with me, and we can pay you a visit. I’ll be the one standing next to a moose with a red corsage. Oh, and I’ll be wearing one too.
Hasta La Vista, Sweet Prince,
Owleye Pierce