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BJ really felt horrible about it all, but in some sick, ironic way, it was a bit funny. Hawkeye had spent the better part of the week and the entire drive down to Seoul extolling the virtues of the tofu stew at Sung’s, and here he was, not even five hours into their R&R, throwing up said stew into their hotel room’s bathtub. BJ rubbed consolingly at Hawkeye’s back. He did feel for him, really. Besides, he’d already teased him over it on their walk back from the restaurant. It was out of his system.
“Ugh,” Hawkeye groaned, for what was maybe the tenth time in as many minutes. He slipped back, done with his latest bout of heaving, onto his haunches. He settled with his forehead against the lip of the tub. “It’s mostly bile, now.”
BJ stood long enough to refill Hawkeye’s glass of water in the sink. He hadn’t been keeping that down either, but it was better to try to keep him well-hydrated. And Hawk had been throwing up less and less frequently as the hours passed. He might be through that part of it soon enough.
“Thanks,” Hawkeye said, taking the glass from BJ’s hand as he offered it. He downed a solid third of it in one go, then leaned forward again, slumped pathetically on the floor. “Oy. You know, when I was coming over here and thinking of the many, many ways I could get killed, tofu was not on the list.”
BJ snorted. He knelt back down, brushing Hawkeye’s fringe away to feel the temperature of his forehead. “I think it was the clams,” he said, then quieted, focusing on the heat Hawkeye was leaking against his palm. “You’re still feverish. How’s your stomach?”
“Lousy. But better than it was an hour ago,” Hawkeye said. There was a pause as Hawkeye shifted his weight around, anxious hands fiddling with his uniform shirt, which was untucked and stained with sweat and vomit. “I hate being sick.”
“Does anyone enjoy it?”
“Kids, when it gets them out of school,” Hawkeye said. Paused again. “Frank, when it gets him out of work.”
“I bet he had a mysterious fever right before his MCAT,” BJ mused.
A smile played on Hawkeye’s face. He was still pale and clammy, but right in his own assessment: he looked better than he did an hour ago. Significantly better than he had three hours ago, when he’d suddenly lurched free from BJ’s side to vomit in the street. “Y’know,” he said, then laughed, “Frank bought his exam answers?”
BJ paused, then barked out a laugh of his own. “What?”
“Yeah,” Hawkeye grinned, giggling. “Mind you, this is sensitive blackmail material, so keep it to yourself.”
“What if I want to use it?”
Hawkeye titled his head. “Ask me first,” he decided. “There are plenty of other things to blackmail Frank over, but that’s a good one, don’t you think?”
BJ nodded, smiling broadly. It made an unfortunate amount of sense. Anger settled over him; he blinked it away. No point. He already knew Frank was incompetent, and besides, he wasn’t here to chew out. BJ took a deep breath and leaned back to fully sit on the floor, resting his weight against the tub.
“You can go back out, if you want,” Hawkeye said. “I don’t mean to keep you here.”
BJ shrugged. He’d been to Seoul before (once, anyway), and they had a forty-eight-hour pass—plenty of time to do things after Hawkeye’s food poisoning ran its course. He said as much to Hawkeye, but didn’t express that he saw little point in wandering the city on his own. Having Hawkeye by his side made it better. Why go without him?
“Still,” Hawkeye said. He checked his watch, then flashed its face to BJ. “It’s getting late. You must be hungry, at least.”
“Hawk, it’s only been four hours since I last ate.”
“Yeah, but—” Hawkeye’s face twisted, then smoothed. He burped, then gagged, but didn’t heave. “Ugh. But it’s good food! Better than the fare at camp, at least. You ought to take advantage of it while you can.”
BJ gave him a look. “Better tasting, maybe, but apparently it's just as easy to get food poisoning.”
“Just avoid clams,” Hawkeye insisted. “Or Sung’s.”
“I came out of Sung’s just fine,” BJ reminded him.
“Yeah, rub it in, why don’t you,” Hawkeye complained, no heat behind his words. He leaned his face against the tub again, features squishing together, looking much like he did while hungover. BJ wished he could do anything for him beyond hand off glasses of tepid water and let the illness sweep through his body, but there wasn’t much else to be done. None of the local pharmacies had carried dimenhydrinate or any other antiemetic, or had run out of stock of what they did carry. But at least Hawkeye was keeping water down.
Unsure what else to do, BJ reached out and patted Hawkeye’s knee. “If it’ll make you feel better, I’ll go out and eat all that delicious Korean food that your stomach couldn’t handle,” he teased.
Hawkeye rolled his eyes, but smiled. “Go on, then,” he said, waving BJ off.
BJ hauled himself upright. “Sure?”
“Sure,” Hawkeye answered.
“Alright. I won’t linger,” BJ said.
Hawkeye waved him off again. BJ stepped back into the main room, where two beds, still untouched, sat waiting. Glancing back through the open door of the bathroom, BJ grabbed one of the pillows and circled back, dropping it on the tile next to Hawkeye’s folded knees.
Hawkeye frowned up at him, eyebrows raised in question.
“For sitting on the floor,” BJ said, annoyed at himself for not thinking of it earlier.
“Oh,” Hawkeye said. BJ, relieved, watched him raise up long enough to settle the pillow under his hips. “Thanks.”
“No problem, Hawkeye,” BJ said, and left.
Outside, the sun was setting. BJ traced his way along the streets, past the pharmacies, past Sung’s, until he met streets he didn’t recognize. He made a careful effort to memorize his steps, outlining the route that would take him—not home, he shook off, but back to Hawkeye. Back to their shared hotel room. The last thing he wanted to do was get lost.
A right, then a left, then another right. BJ found another restaurant that interested him soon enough, maybe a mile or two out from the hotel. In the early dark the windows almost glowed with warmth, and a pleasant aroma wafted past him when someone opened the door. Tellingly, BJ’s stomach rumbled. Hawkeye hadn’t been far off.
As he stepped inside, was seated, and settled in with a glass of water, he wondered if Hawkeye had ever been here before. The longer BJ spent in Korea the more he got the sense that Hawkeye had been everywhere, done everything—an endless well of experiences that he was more than willing to share with BJ (excepting the ones that BJ politely turned down; with those, he never pushed). BJ made a mental note of the place, determined to ask Hawkeye about it when he returned. Surely, he thought—surely, being so close to the hotel Hawkeye had said he’d stayed in before, he had been here before, too. BJ could imagine what Hawkeye would say when he returned: did you get the ox bone soup? Oh, Beej, you should’ve. It’s incredible.
He got himself some sort of soup, thin noodles in savory broth, and ate quickly. Earlier in the day, back in Sung’s, BJ had been treated to the full force of Hawkeye’s culinary appreciation: shoveling food in his mouth, humming happily, and offering BJ bites, which he politely (and fortunately) declined. And back at home he’d almost always shared meals with colleagues or with Peg. He found he preferred his meals with conversation.
His thoughts drifted back to Hawkeye. The man was a steady presence at all his meals these days, be they in the mess tent, with Hawkeye leaning against his shoulder, or in the OR, where Hawkeye would make appreciative noises even for bland sandwiches eaten over open bodies.
BJ wished Hawk were here, or that he had stayed with him in the hotel. He hoped Hawkeye was doing alright on his own.
To that end, he finished his noodles, stood, and went to pay. A woman around his mother’s age stood at the entrance, and he gave his money to her. Then, still thinking of Hawkeye, he asked: “Excuse me, do you know where I can get some nausea medicine?”
The woman looked up at him, asking in careful English to repeat himself, which he did. She frowned. “Didn’t like your food?”
BJ laughed. “No, the food was good. My friend is sick.”
“Ah,” she nodded. She held up a finger, telling him to wait, and disappeared into the kitchen. When she came back minutes later with a small, covered bowl, BJ frowned—maybe she hadn’t understood what he meant. He searched his mind for the little Korean he remembered, and came up with nothing beyond a broken way to say it’s okay, I’m a doctor. She pressed the bowl into his hands. “Good for the stomach,” she explained, and turned away, taking payment from someone else.
“Oh,” BJ said. He folded up the lid and found she’d given him a serving of plain porridge, and even included a small curved spoon. He called out a quick thanks, but the woman didn’t pay him any mind. Resecuring the lid, BJ left, and slipped back out onto the street.
Back in the hotel, Hawkeye had migrated from the bathroom to one of the beds and curled up onto his side there, cheek pressed into the lip of the mattress. He raised a weak hand in greeting. “Hiya, Beej.”
“You’re looking terrible,” BJ said. The lamp on the bedside table cast Hawkeye’s face into sharp relief. He was down to his tee and slacks, hair askew. BJ crossed the floor, intending to feel for fever in Hawkeye’s forehead again, and accidentally kicked something next to the bed. “What’s that?”
“In case I have to throw up again,” Hawkeye explained. On closer inspection, BJ found he’d kicked a wicker wastebasket, lined with the jacket of Hawkeye’s Class-A uniform.
“Economical,” BJ said. He sat on the bed, settling against the curve of Hawkeye’s folded legs.
“Thanks. How was your evening?” Hawkeye asked. Groaning, he rolled over onto his back. “Eat anything good?”
“Not bad,” BJ said, leaving out how boring it had been to eat alone. He held out the covered bowl, waggling it lightly. “Got you something.”
“Oh,” Hawkeye smiled. He looked tired. “Beej, that’s sweet of you, but my stomach is still mid-mutiny.”
“Woman at the restaurant said it was good for nausea,” BJ insisted. He pulled the lid off for him. “Nice and plain.”
Hawkeye strained up, peeking just over the edge of the bowl. He sniffed. “Porridge?”
“Rice, I think,” BJ confirmed.
After a brief pause, Hawkeye struggled into a seated position and took the bowl from BJ’s hands. He brought it up to his nose, sniffed it again, and made a small, pleased sound.
“I’ll take that as a good sign,” BJ smiled.
Hawkeye’s stomach made a low complaint. Hawkeye peered down at it, eyebrows raised, then glanced back up to BJ. “I think that’s another,” he said, and grasped the spoon.
Still smiling, BJ slid up the bed, resting himself against the headboard as Hawkeye ate. He felt sated in a way he hadn’t in months, calm and content. The walk and the food settled him. He watched Hawkeye for as long as he could before shutting his eyes and sliding down to rest his head against the bed’s pillows.
“Hey, what are you doing?”
“Dozing,” BJ answered.
BJ felt Hawkeye’s body brush gently over his shins, and heard the soft swish of an empty bowl landing in the wastebasket. “I’m still sick, you know.”
“It’s not contagious,” BJ said. He cracked an eye open and peered at Hawkeye, who was cross-legged and nearly brushing up against BJ again. BJ wished he would. “And you are still sick. All the more reason for me to stay and keep an eye on you.”
“Wouldn’t you like your own bed for that?”
“If you don’t want to share, you can move,” BJ said serenely.
Hawkeye scoffed. Another brush against his legs, more soft shuffling sounds: Hawkeye leaning over him to move the wastebasket to his side of the bed. “Look at you, doing this to me on my deathbed,” he groused. But he settled in next to BJ anyway. “At the very least, would you get the light?”
“Fine, fine,” BJ said, tone light, and leaned up long enough to pull the lamp’s chain. The room plunged into darkness. Already up, he leaned forward and tugged off his boots, then his jacket, tie, belt, and shirt, ending in just his slacks and tee, matching Hawkeye. BJ settled back against the pillow. He didn’t stay settled long before Hawkeye was tugging at the sheets below him.
“Move, you’re on my sheets,” Hawkeye said. His voice sounded incredibly close.
With mild complaint, BJ shifted closer to the headboard and lifted his legs long enough for Hawkeye to jerk the fabric out from under him. With eyes barely adjusted to the dark, BJ felt more than watched the vague shape of Hawkeye settle noisily into bed. Beneath them, the bedframe creaked.
“Jeez, I’m glad I don’t share a bed with you all the time,” BJ said. He slid his legs beneath the covers and nudged Hawkeye’s hip with his knee. “Do you always flop this much?”
“Only when someone’s lying on top of my sheets,” Hawkeye said.
“Nag, nag,” BJ joked. He shut his eyes again once his head hit the pillow. The bed was already warm from where Hawkeye had been laying on it, and the sheets already comfortably rumpled. BJ rolled over onto his side and tucked the covers up to his chin.
Sharing with Hawkeye wasn’t so bad, really. Once he settled, he settled, provided he was actually sleepy; besides, he made the bed warm in a way that was hard to replicate without two people beneath one blanket. BJ had missed that. And he already slept close to Hawkeye every night anyway, separated by a short stretch of dirty floor, an odd mirror of a married couple in a movie, sleeping in their chaste twin beds. BJ would trade that arrangement for their rickety cots any day. And maybe it meant they’d really share when no one was looking.
A light dip in the bed, and another soft fabric sound. BJ was too close to sleep to be bothered.
“Hey.”
BJ forced his eyes open. Hawkeye had rolled over from his back to his side, nose to BJ’s nose. He could feel Hawkeye’s breath on his face. He felt suddenly more awake. “Yeah?”
“Thanks,” Hawkeye said. He smiled sleepily, eyes disappearing. “For the porridge.”
“It was no trouble,” BJ replied. Hawkeye’s folded arms brushed against his own.
“So what?” Hawkeye said. “I still appreciate it.”
“Well, you’re welcome.” He stared at Hawkeye’s face, so close to his own. Hawkeye’s face was going slack even as a small smile remained.
“I’d give you a kiss as thanks, but I think my mouth still tastes like bile,” Hawkeye said. His voice was low and quiet. He was falling asleep.
BJ felt himself flush. He found himself smiling his uncomfortable smile, even though Hawkeye couldn’t see it. What else to do?
After a beat of silence, he settled on: “Brush your teeth and get back to me.”
Hawkeye’s smile widened, but he didn’t reply. BJ was almost, but not quite, relieved. He laid awake for an hour afterwards, intermittently trying to sleep and watching Hawkeye’s relaxed face; he eventually slipped off once he had nudged his arm forward, the back of one finger resting against Hawkeye’s bare wrist.