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A gust of cold wind followed BJ through the front door, itself followed by a small cloud of snowflakes. He shivered, achy and frustrated from a long walk through thick snowdrifts, and finally managed to kick the door shut with the heel of his boot. Whatever snow clung to him, he brushed or shook off over the floor. “Hawk,” he called into the house, “I’m home!”
There wasn’t an answer. BJ frowned, and set his damp grocery bag down onto the shoe rack. He shucked off his overcoat, hung it on the coat stand, and then unlaced and removed his boots. Grabbing the grocery bag again, he set his boots in their spot next to Hawkeye’s.
BJ stepped into the kitchen, a pleasant scent of garlic wafting past him, and felt the heat that was emanating from the stove. He expected Hawkeye to be there, but he wasn’t. BJ set the groceries down on the counter, by the rest of the dry ingredients. They’d had most of what was needed already, except cocoa powder, food coloring, and brown sugar.
If Hawkeye wasn’t in the kitchen, he was probably in the living room, where BJ had left him. He checked there next, and found Hawkeye had moved from his spot in the chair by the bookshelf to another spot at the end of the couch, closer to the fire. He was tucked halfway beneath a worn-out knit blanket, a book open and limp on his chest. The hair he’d let grow long for the winter fanned beautifully across his forehead, the silver at his temples reflecting the orange glow of the fireplace.
BJ grinned at him from the doorway. The room radiated warmth. Removing his scarf, BJ crossed the floor, and then leaned over Hawkeye. He kissed his forehead.
“Mmf,” Hawkeye said. His brow knit and then relaxed. His eyes didn’t open. “Beej?”
BJ kissed him again, on the cheek this time. “It’s me,” he said. He rubbed a hand along Hawkeye’s arm, gently rousing him from his nap. “Sleep well?”
“What time is it?” Hawkeye asked.
BJ checked his watch. “About six.”
“Ugh,” Hawkeye said. “How long were you out there?”
“Not too long,” BJ lied. He’d left when it was still light out, and had spent an inordinate amount of time traipsing through fields on his walk home, not quite knowing his route, his feet catching on things he couldn’t see beneath the snow. “I got your sugar.”
Hawkeye smiled, his eyes disappearing in it. He reached up and pulled BJ down by the collar of his sweater, kissing him on the lips, slow and deliberate. He hummed, still smiling as they broke apart. “Sweet.”
Reluctant, BJ leaned up. His back had started to ache. His skin was getting a little overwarm, too, standing so near the fire. “Dinner?”
Hawkeye’s eyes widened. “Damn! The soup!”
Hawkeye darted up and off the couch, making a bee-line for the kitchen. BJ grinned after him and followed, finding Hawk stood over the stove, frantically scraping the bottom of the pot with a wooden spoon.
“Will it live?” BJ asked, watching him from the threshold.
“It’s a near thing,” Hawkeye said flatly. “I managed not to burn it, somehow. I have no idea how long I was out! One of these days I’m gonna nod off and start a fire.”
“Hawk,” BJ laughed gently, coming up behind him. He wrapped his arms around Hawkeye’s middle, and settled his chin on his shoulder. “You have the best nose of anyone I’ve ever met. You’d smell it.”
Hawkeye snorted. “Plenty of room for scent molecules in this schnoz. Can you grab the salt for me?”
BJ leaned over, one hand lingering on Hawkeye’s back, for the salt. Hawkeye shook some into his palm. Settling his chin back in its spot on Hawkeye’s shoulder, BJ closed his eyes, focusing on Hawkeye’s body shifting under his as he worked, the sound of the pot simmering. He really was warm, now, standing by the stove, and pressed against Hawkeye, who’d been baking by the fireplace under a blanket. He stuck his hands under Hawkeye’s flannel, but above his undershirt, hoping to avoid stinging Hawkeye with his icy hands—of course, he did anyway. Hawk’s stomach tensed under BJ’s touch.
“Ah! Good grief, were you fondling Jack Frost out there?” Hawkeye complained, wriggling away. His original objective—avoid discomfort for Hawkeye—now smashed, BJ set to a solid and reliable backup: teasing him mercilessly. He pinched Hawk’s undershirt in his fingers and stuck his hands beneath it. Hawkeye swore, trying and again failing to dance away. “Oy! Beej! Uncle, uncle!”
BJ grinned, moving his hands away from Hawkeye’s skin, missing the contact immediately. He spun Hawkeye in his arms until they were face-to-face again.
“To the victor go the spoils?” he asked, a little smug and a little hopeful.
“Ass,” Hawkeye said, but gave him a kiss anyway.
BJ stole an extra kiss, and kept Hawkeye in his arms. “What were you reading?”
“Re-reading. Skimming, mostly,” Hawkeye dismissed with a shrug. “ Mrs Dalloway. A first edition. It was Mom’s.” He frowned suddenly. “I hope I didn’t bend the spine.”
BJ said nothing. He and Hawkeye both had bad book habits: cracking spines, dog-earing pages instead of searching for bookmarks; but Hawkeye in particular was bad. He’d once used a slice of plain toast as a bookmark in a medical journal. If he’d needed a placeholder a minute later, he’d said, he would’ve smeared strawberry jam all over a diagram of a cardiopulmonary bypass pump. BJ did not bring this up. He changed the subject with a nod towards the stovetop. “Can I taste?”
“Go ahead,” Hawkeye said. He and BJ parted, and Hawk dipped the long spoon into the pot, holding it to BJ’s lips. “Careful.”
BJ blew softly and waited for a second or two, letting the soup cool. Then he tried it. It was a warm, creamy tomato with garlic; it warmed BJ’s body to the very core, and forced out a very Hawk-like appreciative noise.
“Good?” Hawkeye asked.
“Hawk,” BJ said, nodding, “that’s incredible.”
Hawkeye beamed. “I was worried it needed more—something.”
“Don’t change a thing,” BJ said. Now that he was still and warm and had the barest taste of food on his tongue, he recognized he was hungry—all that walking had created an appetite in him. “Is it ready?”
“Impatient,” Hawkeye tsked. “Two minutes. Would you set the table? I would have, but…”
Not a problem. BJ indicated this with a slight smile and a pat to Hawkeye’s hip.
He’d learned quickly into their long weekend where everything was kept in the kitchen of the Pierce household. Before they’d even made it to the town limit, Hawkeye insisted they had to stop by the grocery store: if they could manage it, he didn’t want to run errands, go out at all, unless it was for a hike in the woods or a walk down to the water. With Daniel graciously spending the week in Vermont with a cousin, they were alone, totally. Secluded. No negative sense to the word. So, after making use of the guest bedroom, the first thing they’d done in Maine was make a meal together.
BJ pulled down two bowls, then two spoons, a ladle, a knife, and two cloth napkins. At the small kitchen table, he arranged the bowls, spoons, and napkins at their places around the table’s corner. He handed Hawkeye the ladle, and then doubled back to the cabinets for a plate and two glasses. If he’d gotten home sooner, he might’ve made them something warm to drink; as it was, he filled each glass with water and a drop of lemon juice, and returned them to the table. Hawkeye was filling both of their bowls with soup. Finally, the bread: they’d picked up a loaf of sourdough from Boudin’s the morning they left San Francisco, and had precious little of it left. BJ set it on the plate, and returned again to the table, ready to eat.
Hawkeye hovered his face over his bowl, eyes closed. He looked like a particularly pleased cat.
BJ loved him ridiculously. He sliced the bread.
Hawkeye took the slice he was offered and dipped it into his soup.
The first several minutes of the meal passed silently, with the exception of more pleased noises from both of them. BJ let his sourdough sit against the edge of his bowl and go soft, bit by bit, until it was gone, while Hawkeye dipped and ate his whole piece before tackling the soup second. BJ grinned around another bite of bread. The meal warmed him. Hawkeye warmed him. The house and the stove and the fireplace warmed him. In that vein, he shed his sweater.
Hawkeye whistled.
BJ grinned, struck a pose, and laid the sweater over the back of his chair. He still had on a button-up beneath it, and an undershirt beneath that; truly, there wasn’t much to look at, but Hawkeye would flirt with him just the same if he were nude or in a full polar suit.
“I think you outdid yourself,” BJ said, once their meal had concluded. He reached across the table to pat Hawkeye’s hand. “Really. This was great.”
“Aw, shucks,” Hawkeye said, falling behind a thin veneer of irony, but he was clearly pleased with the compliment.
“I’ll do the dishes.”
“Oh, no! No chance,” Hawkeye said. “You walked through snow to the store on your delicate-if-large Californian feet. I’ll do the dishes.”
“You made the dinner,” BJ pointed out, standing, his empty bowl in hand.
“I put ingredients in a pot and then took a nap.”
“I guess the nap was the secret ingredient.”
“I’ll almost burn the house down more often. Sit,” Hawkeye insisted. He took BJ’s bowl.
“I’ll dry, then,” BJ said, aiming for a compromise.
Hawkeye paused. An odd look passed over his face, but then it was gone. “That’s fine.”
There wasn’t much, with just one course served to two people. Still, Hawkeye was a little quiet, and kept shifting his weight. The second time he rolled his shoulders, BJ frowned and asked if his back hurt.
“Just a little,” Hawkeye dismissed. “I’m too old to sleep on the couch.”
BJ nodded. He sometimes liked to tease about the year-and-change Hawk had on him age-wise, but now didn’t seem the time. He set about drying the clean bowls and putting them in the dishrack. Then he started a little song under his breath, just humming; soon, Hawkeye joined him, singing the words to his tune. That was reassuring.
“Music in the night, a dream that can’t be heard,” Hawkeye sang quietly. He passed the last cleaned dish into BJ’s hands, finishing the end of the chorus as he dried it and set it aside. “Isn’t it romantic?”
BJ grinned. He took Hawkeye’s hands in his, never mind that they were damp, and led Hawk in a quick sway. He kept up humming.
“I don’t remember the next line,” Hawkeye confessed.
“Don’t care,” BJ said, drawing Hawkeye in closer. “Just wanted to dance.”
“You want the radio?”
“I’m alright,” BJ said. He turned Hawk in a small circle. “How does that go? Isn’t it romantic…oldest, sweetest word…?”
Hawkeye frowned, then sang: “Moving shadows…oldest, sweetest word…no, that’s not it.”
“Eh, forget it,” BJ said. He leaned in, giving Hawkeye a quick peck, and then dropped their dancing posture, settling his hands on Hawk’s waist instead. “Bake now, or wait?”
“Ooh,” Hawkeye said. He considered for a moment. “Now. I’ll be ready to eat again by the time they’re done. Hell, even if I’m not, I’ll eat anyway.”
Most everything they needed was out on the counter already. Hawkeye had been poring through a magazine in mid-afternoon and excited himself with the prospect of red-velvet-chocolate-chip cookies, pulled out everything in the kitchen that they’d need—and then realized there were several things they didn’t have. He had his heart set. BJ never could resist that.
“I’ll start on the dry,” Hawkeye said.
“Oh, I can do that,” BJ said hurriedly. He swept past Hawkeye to the grocery bag, now dried and wrinkled on the counter.
Hawkeye squinted at him. “Did you develop some sort of milk phobia while you were out there? Too much white?”
BJ faked a shudder, which made Hawkeye laugh, and changed the subject.
While Hawkeye ducked into the fridge, BJ grabbed his small surprise from the grocery bag and hid it behind the breadbox. The rest was easy: unpack, open, whisk together. Hawkeye joined him and started on the hand mixer.
“I think this thing’s older than I am,” Hawkeye complained, struggling with the wheel. It did look a bit rusty. It jumped along in his hand, not doing much mixing at all.
“Switch?” BJ asked.
“What happened to your determination to mix the dry stuff?” Hawkeye asked.
“Exposure therapy,” BJ said. He tapped the back of Hawkeye’s hand. “Gimme.”
So they switched. Hawkeye had hands just as strong as BJ’s were, but the damn hand mixer was old enough that he had to lean into it, his arm muscles burning up to the shoulder. “Jesus, you weren’t kidding,” BJ said. It didn’t help, either, that they hadn’t set the butter out to soften before dinner.
“Switch?” Hawkeye teased. He was cracking the egg into a separate bowl.
“Ha,” BJ said, newly determined. He worked harder. Stubbornly, the ingredients began to combine. Hawkeye watched him with his brows raised.
“You’re gonna pop your shoulder out of its socket,” Hawkeye said.
“Good thing you’re a doctor,” BJ smiled. “A-ha! Ready for egg and vanilla extract, my lovely assistant.”
“Is that what I am?” Hawkeye asked. “I’ve been demoted!”
“I did say lovely.” He slid the bowl in Hawkeye’s direction.
Only a few things left. BJ measured and poured in the milk, and handed the food coloring off to Hawkeye. “How much, do you think?”
“Not too much,” Hawkeye said. He dropped a hearty amount of dye into the bowl.
It looked like a crime scene in miniature, truthfully, with red splattered against the rest of the ingredients and up the sides of the mixing bowl. BJ laughed—they’d turn out vibrant, that was for sure.
“Chips, if you would,” Hawkeye said.
BJ passed him the chocolate chips. Hawkeye added plenty of those, too. BJ wasn’t sure if the man did anything by half-measures. He watched, amused, as Hawkeye mixed the ingredients together, until their dough was ready: dotted with chocolate and bright red.
“Ready,” Hawkeye announced with a smile. He handed the bowl over, back into BJ’s hands. It would have to chill for an hour, and then bake for another fifteen minutes. Ages and ages. Hawkeye had the same train of thought, evidently: “Oy! I’m impatient. Let's just eat the dough.”
BJ laughed again. Hawk was so delightful that sometimes that was all BJ could do. He gave him a quick kiss on the cheek, and turned to set the dough in the fridge. “Hawk, I have never admired your patience,” BJ said, still chuckling. He kissed Hawkeye again. “Speaking of—what are we going to do with an hour to kill?”
Hawkeye raised his eyebrows, grinning. “Surely you can think of something, intellectual as you are, Doctor Hunnicutt.”
BJ hummed, thinking. He insinuated his arms low around Hawkeye’s waist, settling one hand in the back pocket of his jeans. “Lots of possibilities,” he said. “But how about this: go back to your book. I’ll make us some hot chocolate. We can spend the rest of the time on the couch.”
Hawkeye smiled, softer, his eyes low. “Doing?”
“Whatever you want,” BJ answered. He gave Hawkeye another quick kiss, a pinch through his pocket, and then shooed him back towards the den.
Luckily, they already had everything they needed for hot chocolate. It was fortuitous, getting the cocoa powder, not even knowing he’d want it outside of the cookie recipe. BJ supposed he could’ve done tea instead, but he liked the idea of hot chocolate far better—it matched the flavor profile of the cookies, and what tasted of winter more than cocoa? He set a saucepan on the stove, poured in milk. Cocoa powder, then sugar. He was too warm again, and so unbuttoned the top three buttons of his shirt, and rolled up his sleeves. Chocolate chips next. They melted steadily into the mix. A bit of vanilla. He found two mugs and poured them one each. BJ frowned to himself—they didn’t have marshmallows, which were Hawkeye’s favorite with cocoa, but they did have cinnamon. He rooted around for it, added a dash to the mug he mentally designated as Hawkeye’s, and let the two drinks cool as he cleaned up the stove. The dishes could remain in the sink for now. He was eager to get back to Hawkeye.
He found Hawkeye back on the couch, in the spot he’d been in when BJ had first returned with the groceries, the blanket he’d been under before instead folded behind his back as a makeshift pillow. There was a steady look of concentration on his face as he read. He got a little pinch between his eyebrows when he was focused, which BJ loved. He stepped up to the back of the couch, drinks in hand, and dipped his head to kiss the spot. Hawkeye blinked and looked up. “Done already?”
“Mhm.” BJ rounded the couch and handed Hawkeye his mug. Hawkeye took it quietly. His eyes darted back down to his page. “Good book?”
Hawkeye made a hard-to-interpret noise, a so-so that didn’t mean the novel’s quality, but something else. BJ titled his head and waited.
“Are you…” Hawkeye started, and then sighed. He folded the book on his lap and circled both hands around his mug. “Are you sure this is how you wanted to spend your Valentine’s Day?”
BJ frowned, startled. “What? Why wouldn’t it be?”
Hawkeye shrugged shallowly. “It’s cold, you’re a continent away from your daughter, and you’ve got a half-crazed manic-depressive as your only company.”
“Where is this coming from?” BJ asked. He set his mug aside on an end table, and settled his now-free hand on Hawkeye’s knee. It worried him, how fast Hawkeye could drop like this. Or maybe BJ had missed something before. They were awfully isolated—what Hawkeye had wanted, but what if he regretted it? Hawkeye loved people. Was he bored, only having BJ to speak to?
Hawkeye shrugged again. He wouldn’t make eye contact. “I’ve read it before, but, uh—” he hesitated. “Not since…”
BJ glanced down at the book in Hawkeye’s lap, the black-white-yellow cover and its small bouquet of yellow roses. He’d never read Mrs Dalloway. He said as much to Hawkeye.
“It’s mostly about a woman having a party,” Hawkeye said. He struggled for his next sentence, then, frustrated, gave BJ his mug to hold, and started to flip back through the book’s pages. He found what he was looking for, and read aloud: “‘I leant over the edge of the boat and fell down, he thought. I went under the sea. I have been dead, and yet am now alive…he was talking to himself again, it was awful, awful.’”
“Hawk,” BJ said gently.
“It’s fine, I—” Hawkeye closed the book. “I know—you know, I can think, I can logic my way through things, but I still worry. It’s stupid. It’s just a book. It’s been a good day, a good weekend.” Hawkeye tucked his knees further into his chest, dislodging BJ’s hand. “I should’ve stuck with re-reading the passages where she talks about being in love with her childhood friend. But his wife—that character’s wife, she’s so unhappy with him. I just worry. That’s all.”
“I’m not unhappy with you,” BJ said. He set Hawkeye’s mug with his, and then took the book from his hands. It was dusty and worn, well-loved, clearly had been read over and over again. It had dog-eared pages. He thought carefully of what to say. “It has been a good weekend, and a good day. I can’t think of a better way to spend Valentine’s Day, Hawk, I really can’t. What’s not to love?”
Hawkeye smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. He was struggling to believe it, to metabolize BJ’s words. BJ reached back out to him. He wrapped his hand around Hawkeye’s ankle, over the hand-knit woolen socks, a soft shade of navy blue with white checks. BJ slid his hand up, under Hawkeye’s pant leg, soothing his skin. “Hawk…” BJ trailed off. He worried, too. “If I said something that implied—”
“No!” Hawkeye said immediately. He groaned. “God. I’m sorry. This is good. It is. I’m trying not to ruin it.”
“You couldn’t ruin it,” BJ said.
Hawkeye shot him a skeptical look.
“Well, you could go running off through the snow and elope with the librarian,” BJ said. “That’d ruin it, for sure.”
Hawkeye cracked a smile.
“Or you could strip me and send me to the doghouse in nothing but my shorts.”
Finally, Hawkeye laughed. “That’d be an image,” he said, grinning. “If I didn’t worry about your catching hypothermia. I like all your fingers and toes where they are.”
“Me too!” BJ grinned back. He started to flick through the pages of Hawkeye’s book. “What’d you say about childhood friends?”
“Here,” Hawkeye said, taking the book back. It took him no time at all to find the passage he was looking for. “‘But this question of love, she thought, putting her coat away, her falling in love with women…’”
BJ’s eyebrows flew up.
Hawkeye smiled. He paged forward, searching for a new line, with that same pinch between his brows. It melted when he found his line: “‘But nothing is so strange when one is in love,’” he read. “‘And what was this except being in love?’”
“Huh,” BJ said. Hawkeye closed the book and set it down on the floor. Some life had returned to his expression, his eyes brighter, reflecting the firelight. His cheeks were flushed, his hair a bit askew across his forehead. He hadn’t shaved since yesterday. BJ reached out, running his thumb across Hawkeye’s cheekbone, down across his scruffy jaw, swept over his bottom lip. “I love you,” BJ said. “I hope I make that clear.”
“You do,” Hawkeye assured him. He kissed the pad of BJ’s thumb.
Their hot chocolate had gone cold, but that was okay. Hawkeye took his and sipped and hummed soft, appreciative noises, noted the cinnamon, kept breaking to kiss BJ again, and again, and again. They forgot everything but each other for a good long while.
His head rested on Hawkeye’s sternum, BJ checked his watch. “Dough should be ready soon,” he said, a little reluctant. He didn’t want to leave the circle of Hawkeye’s arms. “We should preheat the oven.”
Hawkeye shifted beneath him. He heaved out a heavy, dramatized sigh. “Well, if we must…”
They stood together. Hawkeye stretched, feline, his flannel shirt riding up above his hips. BJ touched him there, his hand against the softest part of Hawkeye’s flank, and walked with him back to the kitchen. He kept contact as Hawkeye ducked into the fridge for the dough.
Hawkeye pressed forward to take over the dessert preparation, and BJ let him—until he remembered his surprise, lost in his memory beneath the layers of conversation. Hawkeye was rolling small balls of dough between his hands.
“Wait, hold on,” BJ said. A sudden spike of nervousness hit him—it seemed like a silly gift. Frivolous. But he figured it would be worse not to try. “I got you something.”
He felt behind the breadbox where he’d left it, and finally closed his fingers around a small circlet of metal.
Overwarm again, BJ handed it over. “A cookie cutter,” he said, feeling a bit lame.
Hawkeye blinked at it, taking it in his hand. It was heart-shaped. “Beej…” Hawkeye said.
“I wanted—” BJ said, then smiled, feeling self-deprecating. “I wanted to get you a proper valentine, but—it was that same grocer at the store, and I didn’t want her to assume anything.”
They had a little display of them near the counter. BJ had been eyeing them since their first day in Crabapple Cove, all those little red-and-pink cards with heart motifs and cherubs and lace. But the woman who ran the store had known Hawkeye since he was a child. She knew BJ was staying with him, spending the weekend in town, knew what holiday it was—BJ worried, that was all. He didn’t want rumors to spread. He would hate for Hawk to feel unwelcome in a place he loved so much.
“This is a proper valentine,” Hawkeye said. “It’s heart-shaped and everything.”
BJ laughed flatly and looked away.
“BJ,” Hawkeye said, and reached out to touch his free hand to BJ’s chest. He tapped there until BJ looked back again. “Thank you. Really. You didn’t have to get me anything.”
“I wanted to,” BJ shrugged.
Hawkeye grabbed for his hand, raised it, and kissed BJ’s knuckles. “Thank you,” he said again. “Now, enough dallying. I’ve been dreaming of these all day.”
That earned a real laugh. BJ tugged at their joined hands and returned Hawkeye’s kiss.
It took a little doing, but soon enough they had a dozen heart-shaped, bright red cookies in the oven. Hawkeye was full of energy, smiling, chattering, humming, and swaying as he cut the cookies into their shapes, pressed more chocolate chips onto their surfaces, set them on a pan and got them baking. “ Now let’s have the radio,” he said, and crossed the kitchen to turn it on.
The radio crackled to life in the middle of “You, You, You,” and Hawkeye danced his way back across the kitchen while BJ set the egg timer. He set it down just in time for Hawkeye to take his hand again, dragging him away from the oven and to the center of the room, humming along as he went. BJ laughed again, fond, and let himself be led.
Hawkeye led them in an almost-waltz, turning them in circles around the small empty portion of the floor with his hand high on BJ’s back, fingers just brushing the skin above his collar. They were chest-to-chest. BJ felt the vibrations of Hawkeye’s words as he sang and hummed along to the tune, watched the way his eyes moved as he tried to remember lyrics and notes. By the time the radio transitioned over to “I Love You For Sentimental Reasons,” Hawkeye was pink in the face.
“What are you thinking about?” BJ asked.
“Mm, nothing,” Hawkeye said, an obvious lie. His fingers slid up the back of BJ’s neck, drawing out a shiver, and settled in his hair. He leaned in and kissed him, long and slow, still swaying to the music. They stayed like that for a while, through the voice of the announcer, through two more songs, until the timer rang.
“Hawk,” BJ said, half-mumbled against Hawkeye’s lips, “the oven.”
“Can’t it wait?” Hawkeye complained.
Hawkeye preferring him over the recipe he’d spent the last several hours extolling was certainly a buoy to BJ’s confidence. BJ tilted his head to kiss along Hawkeye’s jaw, and spoke against his skin. “They’ll be overdone,” he said, nosing into the pliant, stubbled curve of skin right ahead of Hawkeye’s carotid artery.
“I hate when you’re right,” Hawkeye sighed. He pulled back reluctantly, pressing a parting kiss to the side of BJ’s head.
Of course, they turned out perfectly. BJ hadn’t expected anything less.
“Stop me before I burn my tongue,” Hawkeye said. He was gingerly sliding a spatula beneath each cookie and setting them aside to cool, as careful and deft with them as he was with everything. BJ watched him, smiling warmly at the soft curve of Hawkeye’s face as he worked.
All in all, Hawkeye only lasted two and a half minutes before he scooped up a cookie, still gooey in the center, and held it up. “Here,” he said, and pulled the cookie into two more-or-less-even halves, “let’s split it.”
BJ smiled and took his half. He hadn’t raised it far before Hawkeye was tapping on his chin with his free hand and edging his piece near to BJ’s face—so BJ obliged and opened his mouth. Hawkeye copied, and so BJ fed his half to him, and then closed his mouth around his own.
“ Oh, ” Hawkeye moaned. “That is—” he started, then cut off with another moan, his eyes fluttering closed, head tilting back.
“Ditto,” BJ said, because he could never hope to match the enthusiasm with which Hawkeye approached the sensorial parts of life. His half of the first cookie melted on his tongue: there was rich, warm chocolate between his teeth and warming the roof of his mouth, hints of vanilla popping in as he chewed and then swallowed—it wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate or like it; it was that he would much rather watch Hawkeye do the same.
“Beej,” Hawkeye groaned, mouth still full, and reached out to grip BJ’s arm. He paused, swallowed, and groaned again. “Oh my god.”
“Yeah?” BJ grinned, flushing happily. “Everything you dreamed of?”
“Better,” Hawkeye said. He reached over for a second cookie, and fit the entire thing in his mouth in a single bite. He said something around it that BJ couldn’t quite catch.
“What was that?”
Hawkeye held up a finger and finished eating with a sigh. “I said ‘help me do the dishes before I inhale this entire tray.’”
And so he did. By the time everything was clean and drying, the cookies had cooled. Hawkeye wiped clean a plate and balanced the remaining ten cookies on it in a tower, carting it off towards the living room. BJ followed close behind. The fire was waning, but the room held on to its heat well; even the knit blanket was still warm to the touch. With a third cookie between his teeth, Hawkeye carefully handed off the plate and spread the blanket over their laps. Given the combined size of two six-foot-plus surgeons, it didn’t cover much, but that was of little importance. BJ was more concerned with keeping the plate balanced while he shuffled closer to press the length of his leg against the length of Hawkeye’s.
Between the two of them, they ate half of the dozen. The rest Hawkeye dashed off to put in a tin, for the purposes of eventually eating them on the plane back to San Francisco; though, by his own admission, he’d probably eat the rest before they’d even started taxiing down the runway. He was back quickly, hopping back under the blanket, practically landing on BJ’s lap.
“Ow,” BJ said. Hawkeye’s knee had collided with the inside of his thigh.
“Sorry,” Hawkeye said. He was grinning anyway. He settled his arms across BJ’s shoulders, pulling him closer. “So.”
“So?”
“So,” Hawkeye said again, still smiling, “you’ve treated me to quite the evening.”
BJ smiled back. “I hope so.”
“So,” Hawkeye continued, “anything you want in return?”
BJ hummed, thinking. He had most everything he wanted: peace, rest, good food, and time with Hawkeye. All he really was was tired—and even then, pleasantly so. Sign of a day well-spent. He wrapped his arms around Hawkeye’s lower back, tugged him closer. “I think,” he said, just coming to the idea, “I’d like a bath.”
“You got it.”
Upstairs, across the hall from Hawkeye’s childhood bedroom, there was a bathroom with a deep clawfoot tub, deep enough for two. BJ pulled his back into a gentle stretch as he watched Hawkeye test the temperature of the water, deeming it warm enough only after a few minutes of waiting. “Winter,” Hawkeye complained loosely, then plugged the drain, and finally dipped down to pull a towel and washcloth from the cabinet beneath the sink. He presented both to BJ, bowing in joking subservience. “Anything else, monsieur?”
BJ took the towel and cloth from Hawkeye’s hands. There was a small stool perched next to the tub; he set them there, and, easy in Hawkeye’s company, began to undo the buttons of his shirt. “Join me?”
Hawkeye straightened up, his joking smile widening into a genuine one. “How can I turn down an offer like that?”
“‘BJ, I don’t want to get in the bath with you.’”
“It was a rhetorical question.”
BJ smiled. “I know.”
“Alright, now I might turn down a bath with you.”
“Aw,” BJ complained. “Come on. I’ll grab you a towel and everything.”
“Don’t overextend yourself.”
“Never,” BJ said. He ducked down, opened the cabinet, and grabbed a towel for Hawkeye. Handing it off, he said, “oof, now I’m definitely beat. That took it right outta me.”
Hawkeye snorted. “Need me to undress you?”
“Wouldn’t hurt.”
With a fond eye roll, Hawkeye pushed the shirt from BJ’s shoulders, letting it fall to the floor. BJ reached out, hooking a finger in the dip of Hawkeye’s open collar—one final look for Hawkeye’s assent. With more faux-sufferance, Hawkeye said, “well, go on then,” and began to pull BJ’s undershirt free of his slacks.
By the time they’d left all their clothes in a pile on the floor, the tub was full. BJ slipped in quickly, already starting to shiver—though heat rose, the tile and proximity to the roof kept the bathroom cold. He sank into the water with a groan of relief. Hawkeye was close behind, and settled in at the opposite end of the bath, their heights nonetheless guaranteeing that their legs knocked together. BJ pressed his calf to Hawkeye’s calf and began to wet his hair.
Sinking deeper into the water, BJ shut his eyes. He heard Hawkeye take the cloth, wet it, and start a lather; a second later, Hawkeye was scrubbing carefully at his shin. BJ cracked an eye open, peering at him across the water. “Hawk?”
Hawkeye looked up. “Hm?”
“I love you.”
Hawkeye smiled, pulling crow’s feet into the corners of his eyes. “Love you, too.”
BJ nudged Hawkeye’s side with his foot, smiled back, and shut his eyes again.
After a few minutes of soaking, and of Hawkeye’s careful touch, BJ had energy and motivation enough to wash his hair. Hawkeye handed over the washcloth when asked, taking the chance to sit and soak himself. BJ watched him as he scrubbed his chest and arms clean, and as he rinsed his hair. Hawkeye wore a familiar pleased expression, with his eyes squinted closed and a slight smile. BJ nudged him under the water again. “You look awfully pleased.”
“I am,” Hawkeye said.
Another nudge. Hawkeye barely opened his eyes to look at him. “What, what?”
“Want me to wash your hair?”
Hawkeye squinted his eyes shut again, his smile widening. “Quit being sweet, I’ll get used to it,” he said, but sat up and moved until he had settled again, his back pressed to BJ’s chest, head resting on BJ’s shoulder.
The weight of Hawkeye against his chest was comforting. BJ took his time working the soap to a lather in his hands, too pleased with the feeling to rush through it. When he settled his fingers in Hawkeye’s hair, he felt him sigh. He brushed Hawkeye’s hair back from his forehead. This view of Hawkeye was one he didn’t much see: the slopes of his forehead and nose from above. BJ laid the pad of his thumb against Hawkeye’s left temple, traced up the gentle curve of his brow, his other hand scratching gently at Hawkeye’s scalp. Hawkeye hummed and leaned into BJ’s touch. “You’re gonna lull me to sleep,” he said.
“Well, it is probably past ten by now,” BJ said.
Hawkeye made a vague noise.
“Hm?”
“We should go to bed,” Hawkeye said, clearer. He shifted against BJ’s chest, turning his head to look up at him. “Hey.”
BJ tilted his head, smiling, confused. “Hey?”
“Good day?”
“Yeah,” BJ said. He rinsed the soap from his hands in the bathwater and settled his arms around Hawkeye. “Really good. How was yours?”
Hawkeye yawned.
“That bad?”
“That good,” Hawkeye corrected. “I had a nice one, Beej.”
BJ kissed his forehead, squeezing his arms around him. Hawkeye allowed it for a while before he tapped his finger against BJ’s elbow. “C’mon, I’m gonna prune up.”
“I think we’re well past that point, Hawk. Besides, you didn’t use that washcloth on yourself once.”
“I showered this morning,” Hawkeye insisted. “Please, it’s not safe to let your lover fall asleep in the bath.”
BJ relented. The water was starting to cool, anyway.
Free of the water, they toweled each other off and wrapped themselves up in bathrobes. Down the hall in the guest room they’d left the bed unmade and the curtains open. They crawled under the bed’s heavy quilts together, Hawkeye adjusting until his head was comfortably pillowed on BJ’s chest, his damp hair tickling against the underside of BJ’s chin. BJ didn’t mind. Hawkeye was still warm from the bath. He kissed the crown of Hawkeye’s head, felt his breathing go even, and fell asleep while gazing out the window, watching a fresh round of snow start to fall.