Chapter Text
“H-Hawkeye?”
“Mmf.” He feels something poking him and swats it away without looking.
“Hawk?”
“What? ” He whines into his pillow, keeping his eyes closed to chase the illusion of sleep.
“Are you…okay?” BJ continues poking him with the sterling silver stizzle swick, unfamiliar with this limp creature disguised as his bunkmate.
“‘M fine, why? Would you—” He rolls over and grabs the bar spoon with violence that has him flinging it across the room, “Cut that out!”
“Wow,” BJ does not expect such a hostile reaction and holds his empty palms up to show he is unarmed, “That was…unnecessary.”
“Your face is unnecessary.” Hawkeye buries himself back into his cot while BJ wonders what natural disaster dulled the surgeon’s usually rapier-sharp wit. He has a pretty good guess, actually. A priest-shaped guess, to be precise, who is currently in Seoul for a week of R&R. Pierce has been in a foul and flaccid state ever since Mulcahy left.
“You have to eat, Hawkeye. You can’t keep sleeping through meal times and subsisting on the occasional black coffee. Get up.”
“No.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, did that–did you think that was a question? Get. Up.”
“You are making it very difficult for me to get into character as a coma patient. Wake me when we get wounded, or Monday rolls aroun– hey!” A tug of war over the blankets initiates when BJ rips them off the doctor, ignoring his protests. It dissolves into a pillow fight (RIP Frank’s pillow, gone too soon) and further deteriorates into a wrestling match. BJ has the upper hand because, unlike Pierce, he’s been maintaining a healthy routine.
“Will you,” BJ is trying to knock some sense into his friend as they grapple, “listen to me for a second?!” His fed-up frustration is all that’s required for that extra momentum to land Hawkeye flat on his back, pinning his wrists and straddling his hips.
Hawkeye spits out feathers, “Beej, I didn’t know you cared.” Humour as grim as his expression. “Be gentle. I’ve never done this with a man before.” The accuracy of that statement does not need to be discussed.
“Shut up.” The winning doctor bites, utterly exhausted. “Look, you’ve been a terror for days now and–I know you don’t want to talk about it,” He overlaps the few words Pierce gets out, already aware of the protests, “I know. That’s fine. Do you know why I eat, exercise, shower and all that routine stuff?”
Hawkeye takes a moment, looking like he’s about to experience a stroke, “Is this a trick question?”
“Because if I go home to Peggy less of who I was when I came here, she’ll be devastated. And then I’ll have to endure her lectures about how dare I not take care of her husband. So I care for myself, meaning she doesn’t have to worry. Then I can take care of her.”
Hawkeye looks around, trying to see a thread of how any of this pertains to him, “So…” he starts slowly, egged on by BJ’s hopeful nodding, “Are you going to sit there all day or make a real woman outta me?”
BJ uses two hands to hit him in the face with another pillow, getting to his feet. Hopeless. “I came to tell you it’s lunchtime. Mystery meat with a side of asbestos, your favourite.” He departs, hearing a few snarky yeah, yeahs behind him and what sounds like Hawkeye pulling the kind of face expected from an elementary student.
“No dice?” Radar asks when BJ sits down with his tray and a grim shake of his head. “Rats…” He also looks to Potter, wearing the same concerned features mirrored on Houlihan’s face.
“Maybe…he’s actually sick?” She weighs the words and rolls her eyes, concluding that’s the wrong diagnosis. Of course, there’s a terrible fever going around, the full-capacity post-op can attest to that, but Hawkeye is the type to keep working through an illness and keep it a secret until his body shuts down on him. She’s seen it before. This was something completely different. “I’m going to go check on him—” She stands only to have Potter stop her and insist he’ll do it instead. While they get into a heated debate over who will be the caretaker, BJ feels a nudge to his ribs. Radar nods towards the door of the mess tent, smiling.
In green underclothes and a recognisable red bathrobe, Hawkeye trudges in. Conversation quiets with each table he passes, and heads towards what’s left of the food, resigned to whatever Klinger doles out.
He doesn’t eat much and talks even less, but it’s an improvement.
Gradually things get better. BJ doesn’t have to remind him of meal times. Hawkeye is socialising more like the self he was a week ago, and he’s not avoiding the shower anymore. He’s not such a bear in the OR either, much to everyone’s relief. Frank still experiences the brunt of his ire, the practical jokes taking on a more twisted and cruel edge than usual, but BJ is sure it’s temporary. Better to brutalise one joke of a doctor than to wage war against the entire MASH unit.
Hawkeye is up bright and early on Monday before BJ, which is nothing short of a miracle. And he showers. Twice. BJ is a silent witness to Hawkeye flitting around, giving him a weird sense of de ja vu like he’s watching a kid prepare for Prom Night all over again. Peggy had looked beautiful, by the way. “How ya doin’, Hawkeye?” He smiles with private thoughts.
“I can’t find the–!” He yelps when he opens his shaving kit, startling two rats that have tried to make a home out of it. “Great, a real rat motel. Five out of five tails for excellent service. Where is Frank’s…”
It’s cute watching him doing his best to make himself presentable. Tease-worthy, too, “Why are you shaving?” BJ drawls in a sing-song voice, already knowing the answer.
“What, are you writing a book?” Hawkeye snaps back, still on a mission to find Frank’s razor.
“Why are you so defensi—”
“I’mnotdefensive!!”
BJ stares proof of the contrary dead in the face before clicking his tongue,“O-kay.” He bites back his smile, shaking his head. “Can’t imagine why I would have thought that.”
Hawkeye leans to the side of the makeshift shaving set up, holding a very sharp razor and an equally murderous glint in his eyes, “What was that?” He’s having a hell of a time locating shaving cream. Puts a bit of a wrench in the whole shaving plan.
“Would you look at the time!” BJ stands up because the idea of Hawkeye brandishing sharp implements outside of the OR is not leaving him with good feelings, “It’s, wow, it’s that time!”
“And what time is that?”
“Time to leave!”
“I knew you were smart, but didn’t realise 'til now you’re a genius.”
Two can play that game. BJ shouldn’t, ohhhh, he shouldn’t. He’s halfway out the door and should just go. “Hey, Hawkeye?” He’s weak for a good joke. “What time today is Father Mulcahy due?” A flying tin cup narrowly misses his head as he ducks out, sniggering too hard to walk straight.
Things settle down somewhat when the leading medical staff come together for Potter’s emergency breakfast meeting, presumably to discuss the mystery fever and the plague of rats that’s got them going in full tilt. The two surgeons take turns having at Frank, relishing each other’s below-the-belt sarcasm and witticisms. It’s a relief to have everything back to normal, including ensuring Frank doesn’t cause organ failure throughout Post-Op. As it is, two patients are losing kidney function thanks to this duck of a doctor.
“Sir, Hawkeye?”
“Thanks for the knighthood, Radar.” He slices, briefly acknowledging the corporal and aware Radar is confused, “What is it?” He clips, furious with Frank but trying to get it under control as he documents orders to follow on the patient chart.
“Father Mulcahy's back from Seoul.” Hawkeye looks up at the sound of his name, his heart kicking up speed, “He's got news.” Radar shares dutifully.
If BJ wasn’t also simmering on similar levels of anger, he’d have more to offer Radar’s message than an abrupt bland smile.
“All right. Good. Get us a chopper. Tag these two for the 121st.” Hawkeye instructs Radar before flying out of the room. BJ doesn’t want to miss the grand reunion–and yes, he genuinely needs to know as much about this illness as possible. It hurts, but he leaves Frank in charge, hoping he doesn’t screw it up more than he already has.