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He'd stayed at the 4077th as long as he could. Waited as long as Frank would let him. If the weasel wouldn't have hesitated to throw him in the stockade and prevent him from ever going home to his girls in two seconds flat, Trapper would have decked him. Knocked his teeth out and his lights along with them with one fell swing of his right hook. But he knew better. Frank had backup, and Trapper didn’t. It didn’t matter what Hot Lips said to him when she was drunk, she'd always stand with Frank in the clear, sober light of day. And there was no lovable Colonel Henry Blake to keep them at bay. Not anymore.
So they'd had two enlisted men drag him, all but literally kicking and screaming, onto a jeep bound for Kimpo. Without Hawkeye.
His footlocker had been tossed unceremoniously into the cargo hold as soon as they arrived, and ever since his driver – a shame faced and apologetic corporal who was just as tall as Trapper was and almost twice his weight in solid muscle – had saluted him and driven away, he'd settled on this bench. So he sat there, with nothing but a solid view of the dirt road that wound its way to the air base. And he watched it like a hawk. A bedraggled, miserable hawk with clipped wings.
Another plane landed while he waited and he absently watched a slew of new recruits make their way onto the tarmac. Kids. Most of them couldn't be older than Radar. Mostly draftees, he was sure of it. But there were a few who were older; men who’d either seen enough already but for some reason that Trapper couldn’t comprehend, decided it was worth it to get back to it, or who, like him, weren’t quite old enough and had a particular skill set that got them dragged in too. It was easy, in a place like this, to feel like – to know – that none of them really had a choice.
It’s what had really gotten him about Hawkeye. That he was brave enough to say everything that no one else would. That he’d rail and scream and holler, knowing that there was nothing he could do to change it, but still being unwilling to just put his head down and accept it. To try to just earn his points and get out like everyone else. Hawkeye could never, and Trapper was positive that it was Hawkeye who’d made sure Trap kept going. Hawkeye who made it possible for him to be able to go home to his girls at all, even if he wasn’t sure that he’d ever be John McIntyre again. They’d both felt the helplessness, watching kids get chewed up by the war machine, but it seemed like Hawkeye was the one person there refusing to be ground beneath the wheels of its tanks. And of all the people in that lousy camp, he’d picked Trapper .
He watched another jeep fly down the road, heart in his throat again, only to watch it pull up for somebody else. Another group of new recruits poured inside, more than there were seats for, filling the vehicle with nervous laughter and forced bravado. Trapper wondered what Hawkeye would make of them. What jokes he’d crack to make them feel like they could get through it. Make it home alive, hopefully with their humanity still intact. He’d have something biting to say, real, and shocking enough to remind them they were men, human beings , not just soldiers. But Trapper couldn’t think of what it could be. He didn’t have the gift for words that Hawkeye did. He was the supporting act, not the leading man, and with each jeep that pulled up, not a single one of them carrying Hawkeye Pierce, his heart sank just a little further.
Eventually there was only one new recruit left, and Trapper had eyed him irritably as the kid ambled over to the area where Trapper was waiting. There were other benches, but he didn't sit. He just stood, leaning against a pillar, scanning the airfield just like Trapper was. Occasionally eyeing the road and then looking at his watch, just like Trapper was.
It wasn't long before the lone stranger was staring at him in favor of any other target. Trapper continued resolutely scanning the compound for any signs of Hawkeye. Even a cloud of dust billowing up on the road in the distance could have given him something to hope for. But instead, when the glare of the sun cleared from his vision, sharp, inquisitive eyes caught his, and Trapper shot him a poisonous glare in return before looking sullenly back at his hands. The man's eyes were blue, but they weren't blue like Hawkeye's were – faint copies at best, and leaning more gray than electric. The reminder was like the twist of a knife in his gut. And those eyes, if the prickling feeling rising up his spine was anything to go by, were still staring at him. He heaved a sigh and mustered up another withering glare before looking back at the stranger.
"Take a picture, why don't you? It'll last longer," he scowled, irritation swelling up in his chest like a wave, and rising in magnitude with the oppressive summer heat beating down on his back when the man appeared to be entirely unfazed by Trapper's foul attitude. He simply shrugged, the corner of his mouth twitching into an amused smirk that just set Trapper boiling even more furiously.
"Silly me, I left my camera and darkroom in San Francisco." And then, uninvited and cheery as anything, he strolled over to the bench where Trapper was sitting and said, "This seat taken?" But before Trapper had a chance to lie, he sat down in the empty seat.
"You picked the wrong guy today, buddy," Trapper growled. "I ain't in a talkin' mood."
"Hey, you talked to me first," he grinned, and when Trapper's head whipped around to stare at him, lips pulled into a snarl, he simply shrugged. There was a mischievous twinkle in his eye that reminded him all too much of Hawkeye once again, and Trapper rolled his eyes, looking resolutely back out at the tarmac.
"You were starin' at me."
"Oh, excuse me, I didn’t realize looking was a court martial offense. I beg your pardon, then, Captain...?" The man offered, turning to hold out his hand. Trapper could hear his shit eating grin even without looking back at him.
He wasn't going to give the guy his name and he wasn’t going to shake his hand. Unless Hawkeye himself peeled across the runway in a stolen U.S. Army Jeep, tires screeching and burning rancid rubber across the tarmac, all Trapper wanted was to be left alone.
The guy didn't miss a goddamn beat though, and when it became clear Trapper wasn’t going to play nice, he simply withdrew his hand, feathers unruffled, and continued as if Trapper hadn't just completely ignored him. "Hunnicutt," he said. "BJ Hunnicutt."
Trapper snorted. What did this guy want? A cookie? A medal? And what kind of name was 'BJ Hunnicutt,' anyway.
"What does the BJ stand for?" he asked, still not looking at his unfortunately acquired companion. He hoped the disdain dripping from his lips was evident enough of his distaste for the man’s company.
"Anything you want," BJ Hunnicutt said blithely, and Trapper rolled his eyes and stood up. If Hunnicutt wouldn't leave him the hell alone, he'd find somewhere else to wait for Hawkeye to not show up.
"Alright, alright," Hunnicutt said finally, standing himself, and Trapper could see out of his peripherals that the man was holding his hand up in surrender. "Don't leave on my account. You just looked like you could use a friend."
Trapper sneered as he turned to face Hunnicutt directly, and leveled him with a glower that didn't seem to intimidate him at all. He was just as tall as Trapper was, built sturdy, but not stocky. Looked more like he might have been a runner back in the day, instead of a football player like Trap had been, but strong, nonetheless. And with a glance at his Class A's – neatly pressed and fitting him like a glove, as opposed to Trapper's own disheveled dress uniform that he'd dragged out of his footlocker at the last minute – he noted the bars and the caduceus on his collars that indicated he was a Captain and, presumably, a doctor. And he did look at least somewhat apologetic for having gleefully pushed Trapper's buttons.
"I've already got friends," he grumbled, before begrudgingly returning to his seat. Nevermind that he'd left them all behind in Uijeongbu, or that he didn’t think he had any waiting for him on the other side of the ocean. Hunnicutt hesitated before doing the same, but sat down nonetheless, and Trapper heaved a sigh.
Still nothing out on the horizon. He checked his watch.
Twenty five minutes before he had to board the plane that was already waiting for him on the runway.
"You seem pretty alone right now, at least," Hunnicutt hummed, testing the waters, and Trapper bristled. "Seemed like you were looking for someone."
"Yeah, well I wasn't lookin' for you, was I?"
"No, I suppose not," he replied evenly, sanguine as ever. Trapper's stomach twisted at the friendly tone, squirming uncomfortably inside him at the easy steadiness about Hunnicutt, and even easier smiles for a hostile stranger. It wouldn't last. Not if he was staying here, which Trapper could only assume he was. "Would certainly be strange if you were, given that we didn't know each other from Adam a few minutes ago, and you don't appear to have a jeep or to have been expecting me." Trapper didn't reply, but it didn't seem to quell Hunnicutt's animated chatter. Nor did the fact that Trapper was being less than subtle about the fact that he absolutely wasn’t listening. "So I certainly don't think you're my ride to my unit… There you go again," he observed as Trapper craned his neck to look down the road once again.
“What?”
“Watching the road.”
"You got nothin' else to do but watch a stranger like a zoo animal?"
"Just waiting for my jeep," Hunnicutt replied, the retort flowing out of him in a lilting rhythm. It stoked the fire that was building up, causing the irritation to boil and then bubble over, and Trapper couldn't keep the lid on it any longer.
"Well then do it quietly," he snapped. "My five year old has better manners than you." And then after a brief moment of blessed silence, he couldn't help himself. "And we still don't know each other from Adam."
"Well you could fix that by telling me your name," Hunnicutt offered and Trapper stared him down.
"If I tell you my name, will you leave me the hell alone?"
"It's certainly possible."
Trapper eyed him suspiciously. It was far from a particularly solid agreement. He turned back to stare out down the road. Still nothing.
What would he even say if Hawkeye did come? It wasn’t like he’d been able to put any of the mess of feelings tangled up in his chest to words back at the 4077th. Between desperate attempts to get ahold of Hawk, and haphazardly throwing his belongings into his trunk in a drunken, disbelieving daze, he'd spent hours pacing and trying to figure out what the hell he could say in a note that would tell Hawkeye how he felt, how much he regretted having to leave without him, how much he loved him, in a way that would matter. And that wouldn't get Hawkeye in deep shit and a dishonorable discharge to boot if anyone ever found it. Henry was gone. More than gone. Dead and down on the ocean floor, his body bloating with salt water, never to see or be seen again. And Frank would just love any opportunity to ruin Hawkeye's life.
Even if Trapper had been pretty damn sure Radar wouldn’t say anything to anyone about it, kissing the kid and telling him to give it to Hawk had been risky enough. Radar's stammering shock and evident discomfort in the aftermath of Trapper planting one on him told him that it was potentially more than.
He certainly hoped he was right that Radar would keep his mouth shut and not say anything that would get him court martialed before he even managed to get in the air. But it seemed like Radar had calmed down enough to just look miserable by the time Trapper’s jeep had swung out of the compound. He was a good kid. Trapper felt guilty leaving him behind too, albeit for different reasons than Hawkeye. That sweet kid didn't belong in a war zone. None of them did, but especially not Radar.
He looked at his watch. Twenty two minutes. There was still time, maybe.
For all he knew, Hawkeye was still hammered and passed out on the floor of a bath house. He could’a never gotten any of the messages they’d left at his hotel, and at every single one of his haunts that Trapper could think of, and would arrive back at the 4077th blissfully unaware. Trap might never know if he received them at all, or if Radar would be too chickenshit to pass along the one thing Trapper could think to leave him.
Hunnicutt had been quiet for a while, he realized, and he begrudgingly looked back, calculating. The guy was staring right back at him, calm but clearly curious. And there was a hint of concern in that gray blue that made Trapper want to grow a carapace to hide inside. A thick layer of cartilage and bone knitting itself around him and protecting him from prying strangers. Instead, he slumped back against the bench, and averted his eyes.
"John," he said simply. He could see Hunnicutt nod out of the corner of his eye, and he didn't elaborate. The guy didn't need his last name. In twenty one minutes, and not one minute sooner, he'd be gone and this guy would never see him again.
"Nice to meet you, John," he replied. It sounded like he genuinely meant it, too. Too bad, really.
"I'd say the same, but everything's too damn lousy."
"Anything I can do?"
God, the kid was so earnest. Trapper looked at Hunnicutt, and really took him in this time. He was young. Handsome. Looked younger than Hawkeye, even, and Trapper had a few years on him . The guy could barely be out of residency. What the hell was he doing over here in Korea? But then again, what were any of them doing here? Not a single person had yet to offer him a real answer. Unlike Hawkeye, Trapper stopped asking pretty damn quick.
"I thought you said if I gave you my name, you'd leave me alone."
"Ahh," Hunnicutt said, grinning broadly and shaking his finger with a gleefully raised brow like he'd just caught Trapper in the funniest joke imaginable. "I said it was possible. "
"Very goddamn funny," Trapper snarled, and crossed his arms, turning back to the sea of asphalt before them and trying to ignore his unwanted guest.
"I thought so."
Trapper didn't reply. Maybe if he kept ignoring him, Hunnicutt would get bored and go bother someone else. He scanned the field again. There wasn't really anyone else. At least not anyone not already occupied in loading or servicing the planes in the distance. Just his luck.
"So, what's eating you?"
Trapper's head lolled back, exasperated. This kid didn’t give up, did he? He closed his eyes, his hands rising to scrub at his exhausted, red rimmed lids, the heels digging into the sockets. He'd told Hawkeye once that if he could just close his bulbs, everything else would disappear, but this time he could still feel the slight shifting of Hunnicutt's body on the other side of the bench, still feel his eyes watching Trapper attentively. Whatever. He didn't need to follow his own advice. He opened his eyes and stared up at the sky, throwing away the commands of his own father from thirty years ago, reprimanding him for doing something that could hurt his eyes (and by extension his ability to follow in his father’s footsteps working at the docks), and stared at the burning glow of the sun until his eyes started watering and he had to squeeze them shut again, watching the dance of purple and orange splotches across the back of his eyelids.
"You," he sighed, defeated.
"I don't know," Hunnicutt said, twisting to lean his side against the back of the bench and resting his arm on the ledge. He was still staring intently at Trapper; he could tell without even looking. "See, I only just got here. Seems like what's eating you is out there," he said, pointing with his free hand first to Trapper and then to the empty road.
Trapper could keep on trying just to stonewall him until he gave up, but this guy was worse than Louise. Always badgering him until he let go of whatever was boiling him up from the inside out. He just kept going.
"Listen," Hunnicutt said, and Trapper rolled his eyes behind his closed lids. He wasn't walking away, was he? "This looks like what should’ve been the best day of your life and the worst day of mine. You're going home, aren't you?" After a brief, internal argument, Trapper gave Hunnicutt a stilted, microscopic nod. At that, his companion made an inquisitive sort of noise that made Trapper's hackles rise, but before he could get another potshot out, Hunnicutt spoke again. What, was this guy the reigning champion of one sided conversations? "What's got you so sour? I'd kill to be in your shoes, and I just got here! You've got a kid, you said, right?"
"Two," he replied stiffly.
"I've got one at home," Hunnicutt replied, and for once, despite his efforts to try to remain chipper, Trapper couldn't miss the hint of anguish that was hiding behind it. It was echoing all throughout his own body after all. It wasn't hard to miss. "She's only eighteen weeks old. God knows how old she'll be when I get back."
"Yeah," Trapper said, voice rough, as he thought of how many hours, days, weeks, months , he'd spent missing Becky and Kathy over the last year. He turned his head to the side from its own admittedly uncomfortable dangling perch, to look at Hunnicutt. He took in the man's expression, and it was a mirror reflection of his voice. A happy face, special ordered for polite company, but clearly just a mask. "Hate to tell you, but it never gets easier."
Hunnicutt watched him quietly for a long moment, and Trapper wondered if he was finally going to let him be. But almost as soon as he let the thought enter his mind, Hunnicutt opened his mouth again.
"I can’t say I’m surprised to hear it,” he nodded, and then, with a sudden, determined tension to his jaw, doubled down. “I can only imagine you've got a flight coming up that's just about as long as the one that I just got off of. You really wanna stew in whatever it is you're bottling up for thirteen hours? Come on, tell me why, if it's never gotten easier to be away from your girls, you look so miserable to be going home to them?"
He tried to stifle the flash of anger at the implication that he would ever regret going back to Becky and Kathy. What the hell did this guy know about him or his life? What could he know about boarding a plane not even two full weeks since one of his closest friends had done the same thing and been blown to smithereens? Nothing, that's what. Who the hell was he to be judging Trapper ? This guy who has only just left his family behind, who doesn't know what it's like to be covered in blood, soaked through to his boots, trying to operate without the canvas ceiling falling down on their patients along with splinters from the wooden frames as the god damn tent they had to operate in was shaking during a shelling?
Hunnicutt's mild-tempered and gently inquisitive expression somehow managed to push through the fog, however, breaking him out of the loop of self righteous rage. God, his thoughts were starting to sound like Hawkeye.
Trapper didn't say anything right away. The anger was continuing to bubble up under the surface and he didn’t trust himself not to snap again. Hunnicutt didn't speak, either. He just watched, letting Trapper gather his thoughts. Trapper stretched his arms up and back, wincing as his spine cracked and popped audibly. He'd been hunched over for a while before Hunnicutt arrived. His shoulders slumped forward again as soon as he set his arms down and he buried his face in his palms. The quiet felt strange now, after so much chatter from his neighbor.
"It's not about them," he finally conceded, mumbling the admission into the shield of his palms. “Of course I’m glad to be on my way to see them, I just…”
Hunnicutt kept quiet, didn't press for more but neither did he offer Trapper an out. Just sat there, listening. Waiting for Trapper to continue.
And, eventually, he did.
"I had to leave someone behind," he said, his words coming out more choked than he would have liked. Once again, it seemed like Hunnicutt was choosing now to be silent; right when Trapper would actually love for him to start chattering again. Anything to make him stop talking, stop spilling his guts to this total stranger. But the chatter was never picked back up, and now that the dam had been broken, the truth just kept spilling out of him. More heartbreak. "I waited. I did ," he continued, practically pleading as if Hawkeye was standing in front of him and Trapper was trying to convince him . "I waited."
He stopped for a moment, humiliated, and Hunnicutt seemed to take pity on him.
"I believe you," he said, reaching out with a hesitant hand to clasp Trapper's shoulder, but when he flinched at the attempt, Hunnicutt withdrew his hand even faster than he'd offered it.
"Waited as long as I could, but they didn't make it back in time, and I couldn't... I got daughters back home, you know?" He looked at Hunnicutt this time, eyes wide and plaintive, and Hunnicutt nodded, sympathetically. They'd had this conversation already. Hunnicutt knew. "I couldn't stay and miss my chance to get back to 'em. I've been gone for over a whole year . I've already missed so much."
He could see on Hunnicutt's face that even if he couldn't fully comprehend the depth of that grief – not yet, that he knew it was on the horizon. His hand was twitching ever so slightly on the bench, like he was itching to reach out and comfort Trapper, but was holding himself back, knowing that Trapper would only pull away.
Eventually, he seemed to realize that Trapper was done – for the moment, at least – and clasped his hands together in his lap before turning those steel blue eyes back in Trapper's direction.
"Did you leave her a letter, or a note, or something?"
Trapper snorted out a hollow laugh at the question and raised an eyebrow at the subtle bristling of BJ's shoulders at the noise.
"Left somethin'..."
He didn't elaborate right away, but Hunnicutt didn't ask him to, either. Just kept staring. If he was talking to Hawkeye, he– Well, if he was talking to Hawkeye, he wouldn't be having this conversation. Not like this at least. But Hunnicutt seemed to be much more judicious with his words than Hawkeye had ever been. He could always count on Hawkeye to fill the silence. To happily chatter away to an amenable, rapt, adoring audience – and sometimes even to an audience that wished he’d just shut the hell up. But Hunnicutt had withdrawn his own winding rambles as soon as he'd succeeded in provoking Trapper into talking, and he didn't know what to do with that. Eventually, the only thing he could do was to keep going. Just like his marriage with Louise, the only way out was through.
"I left 'em a kiss, alright?"
Again, Hunnicutt didn't reply, and Trapper's shoulders tensed. There was something about this guy that seemed to have no trouble making Trap feel unsteady on his feet, even right then when he was sitting on his ass. And Hunnicutt just kept watching him, patient as ever.
"Doesn't matter though," he finally grumbled. "I doubt the little twerp I gave it to for safekeeping is gonna pass it along right."
There was another long silence where Trapper was sure that he was twitchier than Radar when one of the pregnant locals came in to give birth. He kept looking at Hunnicutt and then back at his hands, and then back to Hunnicutt and back to his hands. Every time he looked at his companion's face, it seemed like he was contemplating something pretty serious. Then a look of resolve fell across Hunnicutt's brow, and when he finally spoke, Trapper was sure the ground had just fallen out from beneath him.
"Well, where is he stationed?"
His head snapped to attention, and fear crawled up his neck like a spider, cresting over his scalp and scurrying its furry little legs back down his spine. He eyed Hunnicutt like a cornered prey animal. It was just a question. He hadn't said anything to confirm what the man was really asking. But his physical reaction had almost certainly given him away. He didn’t dare look away to check his watch to see how much time he had left. If he had a chance to get away before Hunnicutt called over an MP.
But Hunnicutt was looking at him so softly that, before Trapper even had a chance to register the fact, his shoulders were sinking of their own volition, and he really took it in. The look on his face was astute in a way that he knew BJ understood. Really understood. Not in the sense that he could pick up on just enough to be disgusted and ruin Trapper's life. Hunnicutt nodded. It was barely an incline of his head, but it was enough for Trapper to look at him now with simple suspicion instead of outright fear. The sympathetic look on his face seemed genuine, but Trapper had heard stories about guys putting on a show just to catch another in the act and throw him in the stockade. Had seen cops pull the same act in bars to pull a fast one – after they'd gotten their cocks sucked, of course – only to turn around and arrest the guy who'd just gotten them off. Sometimes pulling their badges out before they'd even tucked themselves back into their trousers.
"What's it matter?" he asked finally, remaining guarded, non-committal. He could see the frustration in the set of Hunnicutt's jaw. Neither of them wanted to be the first to make an admission outright. But Hunnicutt started this. He could finish it too, if he wanted to know so badly.
"I think I might be able to help,” he suggested mildly after a long moment of tense uncertainty.
"Oh yeah?" Trap scoffed, a lift of his brow telling Hunnicutt that wasn't going to cut it. His neighbor sighed, and rolled his eyes. But once again, he didn't push. Not right away. Trapper watched Hunnicutt watch him, and he could almost see the gears turning in the man's brain as he thought about what to say to Trapper.
"I had a friend," he admitted quietly after looking around to make sure no one was close enough to hear them. "In college." Trapper resisted the urge to say something sarcastic, teasing, like he might if he were in a back and forth with Hawkeye, and instead took his turn waiting for Hunnicutt to say whatever he was going to say.
"We were... close. Like you and your... friend." He eyed Trapper nervously and, seeing that he was still suspicious, took a breath and soldiered on. "His name was Leo." The metaphorical punch to the gut that just saying this guy's name seemed to bring to Hunnicutt might have even been enough for Trapper, but before he could say anything, Hunnicutt kept going, determined. "We’d been seeing each other through undergrad and all the way up until my wedding, and the last time he... The last time we… anything, was the night before. And then he acted like nothing had ever happened. Wanted a clean break, I guess." For the first time since he started telling the story, BJ broke eye contact with Trapper and looked down at nothing. “We're still friends. Exchange Christmas cards and everything," Hunnicutt said with more than a hint of bitterness. "I just wish I'd been able to say a proper goodbye."
Trapper understood the feeling. After a long, uncomfortable silence, he awkwardly leaned over to nudge Hunnicutt's shoulder with his own, wanting to offer some kind of acknowledgement but unsure what to say. Hunnicutt chuckled, and then those blue eyes were back on him. Trapper felt frozen to the spot.
"That good enough for you to tell me where your 'friend' is stationed?" Hunnicutt asked again with just a hint of edge to it. Like he didn't regret telling Trapper about this Leo character, but he damn well expected something in return. And whether it was the story itself or the way Hunnicutt told it, Trapper wasn't sure, but he found that he trusted him enough to meet him in the middle. He just had one question.
"I still just don't see why it matters," he sighed, and when Hunnicutt looked at him sharply, he held up a hand to hold him at bay. "You could be goin' anywhere, is all."
Hunnicutt raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching again but trying to keep his face carefully neutral as he replied. "Well, maybe I'm going there." He shrugged, watching Trapper's face carefully. "You're a doctor," he continued, shifting closer on the bench and, when Trapper didn't pull back to maintain the distance, reached out with his finger to take the corner of his dress uniform between his thumb and long, graceful forefinger. Despite himself, Trapper could feel his breath catch in his throat at the contact as he watched Hunnicutt's face and felt the drag of his finger on the tension of his collar as he carefully brushed it along the caduceus pinned to Trapper's lapel. And then, just like that, his hand was gone and he was back in his own space. Trapper stared at him, dumbfounded, and finally Hunnicutt smirked.
"And you're not flying out of Tokyo," he continued as if nothing had happened, "so I can only assume that you're coming from a MASH."
'Good guess,' Trapper thought faintly, watching the shape of Hunnicutt's lips forming words around that mouthful of teeth like a military cemetery. Hunnicutt's hand gestured to his own lapel and Trapper glanced away just long enough to see him gesture to his own caduceus before his eyes were drawn straight back up to Hunnicutt’s face.
"Where do you think I'm being sent?” he asked, and held Trapper’s gaze with a raised eyebrow. “It's a one in seven chance."
Trapper chuckled at that, and stared at Hunnicutt, wondering how the hell he'd managed to turn the tables so quickly. "One in seven chance for what?"
Hunnicutt’s eyes locked with his, and there was that Hawkeye Pierce-esque twinkle in his eyes again.
"That I could pass it on right."
He hadn't inched closer since Trapper had pulled away, but with that broad, easy grin, and bright, blue eyes, Trapper felt like they'd been pulled together like magnets. He stared at Hunnicutt, thinking about Hawkeye. Thinking about Hunnicutt kissing Hawkeye. For him. Part of him felt like drowning himself in alcohol at the idea. That this handsome, optimistic, bright eyed young man who hasn't already been dragged down by the horrors of war could take his place. That Hawkeye could forget about him. Another part of him sullenly reminded himself that it was for the best. It didn’t matter how miserable they were – Trapper wasn’t leaving Louise and risking losing the girls. And Hawkeye could never live his life in hiding like Trapper did. He couldn't for the life of him imagine Hawkeye settling down with some nice girl, giving her a couple of kids, and pretending for the outside world that he wasn't bent as a fucking deaver retractor, all the while sneaking around to get whatever he could when he could until he died. Hawkeye would be better off forgetting about him. The last part, the quietest, but most heartfelt part of him, just wanted Hawkeye to be happy. Wasn't that the most important thing?
He looked at his watch.
He had eight minutes.
"Alright, Hunnicutt," he said, looking around again to make sure none of the soldiers working on the compound were paying them any mind. He stood up.
Hunnicutt followed his lead and they stood there, frozen in time, looking at each other with twin hints of nervously stifled grins. But he couldn't stand here all day, so with one more moment to glance at the road and once again being met with the sign of nothing, he smirked at Hunnicutt, finally regaining some of the charm he'd always been known for.
"Follow me. We've only got seven minutes."
"Seven minutes in heaven?" BJ countered, and Trapper couldn’t help but grin and toss him a wink before taking off.
He and Hawkeye had spent plenty of time at Kimpo waiting for flights to R&R or returning from them and waiting for a jeep to drive back to camp in, finding every nook and cranny where they could get some privacy. He knew his way around. He tried to walk as quickly as he could without drawing suspicion as he weaved around the main building to find an alley with an additional bit of privacy being afforded to them in the form of a dumpster.
"Romantic," Hunnicutt said dryly, looking around and eyeing the dumpster with a hint of disgust.
"Gotta take what you can get over here," he grinned, and stepped in closer.
"Fair enough," Hunnicutt shrugged, and leveled Trapper with a stare that was doing not insignificant work to make Trapper's blood rush with anticipation.
"So, how do you want to do this, Hunnicutt? I give you the goodbye kiss I really wanted to give him?"
Hunnicutt nodded, taking in the look Trapper was giving right back. It didn’t hurt that his placid expression was twitching with something that looked like desire as the heat in Trap’s gaze registered. "And when I find him, I pass it along. But if we're going to do this, you could at least call me BJ.”
Trapper hummed, and his tongue flicked out across his teeth, chased by a smirk. "I'll call you anything you like."
And before BJ could react, Trapper had him backed up against the wall, one arm snaking around his waist, and gripping his lower back with a tender, protective care that knocked the breath right out of his lungs. Trapper pressed their foreheads together, catching it with his own parted lips that were hovering mere centimeters away from BJ's. His other hand caressed BJ's cheek and tangled in his hair. They shared the same breath back and forth for a long, agonizing moment, with Trapper clinging to BJ like his life depended on it, his eyes closed and just being there. Imagining it was Hawkeye’s long, lithe body in his arms. Finally, he moved, first to press his lips gently to BJ's forehead, next to each of his cheeks and then, at last, brought their lips together. He focused all his efforts into giving BJ everything he wished he could give to Hawkeye. Nothing like the brief, piss poor excuse for a kiss he'd managed to plant on Radar's lips before being shoved away with an indignant shout.
He took his time, and BJ let him take the lead. The muffled groan he received as he pulled BJ's lower lip between his own, nibbling at it, was music to his ears and he reveled in the way BJ's arms flew up to cling to him in return as he sucked it between his teeth. Felt the long line of their chests pressing together, all the way down to their thighs where BJ's legs instinctively parted to let Trapper press his knee between them, bringing them impossibly closer. He swiped his tongue out and when BJ eagerly let him in, wrapped it around BJ's, slipping it into his own mouth and pulling out a rumbling groan from BJ's throat. The hand on his lower back pulled BJ in further, and Trapper lost himself in the sensations. Let himself pretend that it was Hawkeye in his arms, pouring every word, every feeling he couldn't say in a note into this kiss as his eyes burned with hot tears threatening to well up within them.
When BJ began giving back as good as he got — never starting anything Trapper didn't, he was clearly taking his role here seriously, and simply enthusiastically reacting to everything Trapper did — Trapper’s heart soared and he redoubled his efforts. As he kissed BJ, thinking of Hawkeye, it was as if his mind split into two images, two experiences. One of himself, here in this moment, feeling every inch of his body and BJ Hunnicut’s working together symbiotically, of BJ enthusiastically playing his part, and the other of BJ memorizing everything Trapper gave him and giving it to Hawkeye in exactly the same way. Imagined being there, a part of BJ, giving it to Hawkeye himself. Telling him he loved him in the only way he'd ever learned how. That he was sorry he had to leave. Sorry he couldn't leave a note. That he would never forget him.
He drowned in the sea of sensation, the physical and the imagined, until a crackling voice sounded over the PA across the compound.
"Final boarding call for flight C-47-19. Flight C-47-19 will be closing its doors for takeoff in two minutes."
Begrudgingly, Trapper separated his lips from BJ's but didn't pull away, merely pressing his forehead to BJ's once more. His eyes were wet and he couldn't bring himself to let go.
"That's my flight," he murmured, still not moving.
"You'd better catch it," BJ said, his words as stilted and breathless as Trapper felt.
"And you'll–"
"I'll give it to him."
"At the 4077th?"
BJ's eyes widened and he nodded, the motion rocking Trapper's head along with his.
"At the 4077th," he confirmed with a growing smile.
Trapper surprised them both by leaning in again to take BJ's lips with his, this time keeping it soft and gentle. Longing. He didn't want to leave.
He couldn't stay, either.
"Must be one hell of a guy you're leaving behind," BJ hummed when Trapper finally pulled back enough to let him speak. His body still held on to BJ's for dear life.
"Yeah," Trapper sniffled, surreptitiously trying to wipe away the tears pooling in his eyes, burning and threatening to spill. They were too close for him to succeed, but BJ was kind enough to not mention it. "Yeah, he is."
"What's his name?" BJ asked quietly, and Trapper let out a ragged breath.
"If you make it to the 4077th," he said slowly, as if he was still trying to regain control of his Broca's area, "You'll know."
"Are you sure?" BJ asked, his eyes alight with something and he squeezed Trapper's arm. "I could–"
"Believe me," Trapper said, meeting BJ's eyes with a sparkling certainty. "There's no one like him anywhere else in the world. You'll know him when you see him."
The PA crackled to life again, and BJ nodded, prying Trapper's hands from where they'd come to rest on his hips.
"Flight C-47-19: Doors closing in one minute."
"You've got to go," he said regretfully.
"Yeah," Trapper sniffled again, burying his face in BJ's freshly mussed hair. "Gotta go see my girls."
BJ nodded. Trapper didn't let go.
"Tell him... Tell him I–" his voice broke off as he pulled away with a pained expression and BJ squeezed his hand.
"I know. I will. Go."
Trapper stared at him with wet, red eyes one more time. Without letting himself second guess it, he instinctively leaned in to press his lips to BJ’s once more, this time for BJ himself — a thank you — and then, a split second later, was racing towards the plane.
He yelled to the flight crew as they moved to the doors and wiped his face, offering them a broad, apologetic grin as he slid past their irritated faces and took his seat. It was another few minutes before they took off, and he stared out the window every second. Simultaneously hoping and knowing it was futile to hope that Hawkeye would make it. It was already too late.
BJ didn't emerge from the alley either, not where Trapper was able to still see at least, and as the plane began to take off, he kept his eyes locked on the tarmac until he was so high above it that he couldn't see anything but the distant roofs buildings. Vehicles the size of insects.
A tiny green june beetle in the distance hurtling down the dirt road.