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The population of the O-club had been steadily dwindling for hours, and now, well into the early morning, it was all but empty. A few stragglers remained: Mulcahy, slumped exhausted over the piano, Hawkeye, BJ, Klinger, and Igor, who was fighting to keep his eyes open behind the bar.
Hawkeye, too, was struggling to stay alert. He was several drinks in and came in already sleep-deprived, yet too high-strung from the day to rest. It was—or, it had been—a Saturday night, after a long working day. They’d been celebrating something, which he couldn’t quite remember. Maybe just the end of another week, or their continued survival. To that end, Hawkeye blearily raised his empty glass, shouting out a toast. “To us!”
Klinger startled. He’d fallen asleep at their table. “Huh?”
“To us!” Hawkeye repeated.
“What’d we do?” BJ asked.
“Survive!” Hawkeye said.
“By the skin of our teeth,” BJ slurred.
“Here, here,” Klinger agreed. He swayed backwards, lifting his glass, then tilted it end over end, dribbling the last dregs into his mouth. “To us!” he echoed, and tossed the glass over his shoulder. It landed on the ground with a crack.
“Here, here!” Hawkeye grinned. He slammed his own glass down onto the table. “Waiter! Another round for the survivors!”
Igor didn’t answer. He’d fallen asleep, too.
“No matter,” Hawkeye said lightly, staggering to his feet. He walked to the piano. “Father, play us something, uh, heroic, would you please?”
Mulcahy made a non-commital noise and shifted in his sleep, the keys beneath his face toning out a messy chord.
“Father,” Hawkeye tried again. He shook Mulcahy’s shoulder. “Maestro?”
“Mm?” Mulcahy blinked awake. “What?”
“Play us something.”
Mulcahy frowned deeply. “Oh, dear. What time is it?”
“About four,” BJ said.
Eyes widening, Mulcahy shoved back from the piano, the bench scraping noisily below him. “Oh, dear,” he said again. “I have services in six hours.” With that, he made for the door, disappearing through it.
“There goes your music, Hawk,” BJ said. “Let’s go home.”
“No, no, no, hold on,” Hawkeye said. “Klinger, don’t you know how to play?”
“What made you think that?”
Hawkeye frowned. “I’ve seen you at the piano, haven’t I?”
“Laying on top of it in nylons, maybe,” Klinger said. He stood. “Look, fellas, s’been nice, but I got s–sents—I’m workin’ tomorrow.”
“Fine,” Hawkeye complained, letting Klinger go. “I won’t save any dances for you.”
“That’s cruel and unusual punishment, Hawk,” BJ said. “Can we go home?”
“Hold on, hold on,” Hawkeye said. His eyes caught the jukebox. He bee-lined for it. “One song, huh?”
Sighing, BJ gestured for him to go on. Hawkeye giggled happily and leaned over the glass, searching for a good choice: Andrews Sisters, Cole Porter…he settled on Glenn Miller, a camp favorite single that had been worn through and replaced twice. The opening notes of “Moonlight Cocktail” accompanied him as he danced his way back to the table.
Standing over BJ again, Hawkeye bowed theatrically, extending his hand. “May I have this dance?”
BJ snorted. “You’re already swaying,” he said, but took Hawkeye’s hand anyway, letting Hawkeye haul him to his feet.
“You flatter me, madam,” Hawkeye joked, pulling BJ closer. They fumbled for an awkward second. “‘Cause I like you, I’ll let you lead.”
“I don’t know how to follow,” BJ shrugged. His hand settled low on Hawkeye’s waist.
“‘S’alright, I do,” Hawkeye said. He knew leading best, but he was no stranger to following, either. He hummed along as the lyrics began—couple of jiggers of moonlight and add a star…
BJ hummed along with him. “That’s good. You ever thought about being a musician?”
“Sure. I’m old hat at the triple bass,” Hawkeye said.
“I do love a man with experience,” BJ quipped. He led them in a slow circle, drawing Hawkeye closer with every step.
They danced clumsily, barely keeping themselves upright against the combined forces of drunkenness and exhaustion. They leaned on each other heavily. Hawkeye did his best, slurring along to the lyrics, his face on BJ’s shoulder.
The instrumental flourish that signaled the end of the song roused Hawkeye. He’d be nearly asleep in BJ’s arms.
“There’s your song, Hawk,” BJ said. “You want me to dip you, or can I just take you home?”
“You’d drop me,” Hawkeye dismissed. He didn’t really want to move, but he wanted to sleep; his back demanded he sleep somewhere soft, and his cot would have to do. He leaned back, freeing himself from BJ’s embrace, and stretched. “Home.”
“Thank God,” BJ said. “I was this close to using you as a pillow.”
Not such a bad idea, Hawkeye thought, and let BJ walk him home.