Work Text:
“I can’t do this. Oh, God, Hawk, I can’t do this.”
The pre-dawn blackness is sucking at the bright corners of the swamp and the last dregs of his energy.
Hawkeye grits his teeth, bites back what he wants to say; better to let Bj sob. At least that way he’ll get some release.
Thirteen hours of meatball surgery, with young, anguished faces pleading for relief in one way or another, framed like scenes of martyrdom in the harsh hospital lamps and he’s only just on his feet.
Hawkeye’s been there. He wonders if he looked like that, sagging under three deaths in a single session with a letter from home waiting on his pillow. He can still hear trusty Trapper John saying ‘I been there, kid. It get’s better.’
The next night they’d put together the still.
“Sedative?” He offers Bj a full martini glass, fingers tight and aching around the stem. Bj reaches out and grips his wrist so hard Hawkeye can feel the bones in his wrist grind together, but he lets that go too.
Bj’s handsome, apple-pie face is puffy, red, and wet with tears. His perfect hair is mussed from his tugging at it and he’s still in his bloody scrubs.
Hawkeye has never wanted to kiss anyone more. If he thought he could take away some of that pain instead of creating more he would offer up his lips, his hands, his soul.
“It’s ok, Beej.”
He sinks into the cot instead and gathers Bj into his arms, stomping down on the sliver of envy. Two kids died on his table and he doesn’t have it left in him to cry.
“I couldn’t-I can’t-“ Bj mutters half made sentences, pressing his face into the hollow of Hawkeye’s throat, breath hot across his jaw.
Hawkeye gives in and presses his lips to one blond temple, an uncomplicated show of affection, like his hands rubbing circles into Bj’s back.
“It gets easier.”
He kicks himself for the cliché, both meaningless and frightening, tries again for something closer to the truth.
“You get used to it, anyway.”
“No, no.” Bj splutters. “How could I ever get used to this? Thos torn up kids in there, they’re never going home, Hawk.”
Hawkeye knows that all too well, but he has to focus on sending Bj home in one piece and not falling into his spiral.
How can he keep a man, so firm and real in his arms, from fading under the glaring injustice of it? He juxtaposes this limp, despairing Bj with the man who nailed Frank’s pillow to the bulletin board, who can’t quite give up on saluting a superior officer, but smiles smugly while he does it. He tries to fix that version in his mind: the secretive looks, the smooth, calm voice that always picks Hawkeye up a few notches when he’s feeling low.
The man he’s hopelessly in love with after such a short time.
“You will.” He whispers, rocking them gently.
“Because you showed up at Kimpo, scared and alone and the first thing you wanted to do was help everybody.”
He lets a smile creep into his voice.
“Remember? You can’t help if you give up.”
It’s only been a month. Hawkeye’s never fallen so easily into another person. He’s never been so desperate to know all of the ups and downs. He feels guilty, eagerly soaking up these moments of closeness, even when Bj is hurting so badly.
“That feels like a lifetime ago.” Bj groans, echoing his thoughts.
“I don’t think I’ll ever be that man again.”
He sounds so despondent that Hawkeye can feel the answering tears in his own eyes. There are no lies crowding his throat this time, threatening to leap out as Bj clutches him tighter, shoulders shaking.
“You’re a great man, Beej,”
His own voice is gravelly with exhaustion and emotion.
“This means you still care. You still feel something.”
When Bj meets his eyes there’s something between pain and understanding there. Hawkeye forces himself not to look away.
“Don’t let them take that away from you.”
He almost can’t handle the way Bj is looking at him, his red-rimmed eyes so blue and so earnest. He looks like a man who’s seen sanctuary in the wilderness, run down and drafty, but shelter all the same. He shifts to wrap Hawkeye in a real hug to offer comfort to both of them and Hawkeye wonders how he ever got so lucky.
“Thanks.”
Bj puffs out a long breath, faintly visible in the night’s chill and casts his eyes on his discarded letter. Hawkeye doesn’t have to ask what was in it that was so depressing.
A wife’s love and loneliness, a family one million miles away and something you want with all your heart and can never have, all rest there on the pillow.
Hawkeye knows the feeling. He tries hard to be thankful for what he does have. He has Bj pressed against his side as they work on dousing the bad night in worse gin and try to play chess from the same side of the board. They laugh when there arms tangle and the pieces knock together.
He gets that fond smile when he’s up to his usual hijinks and he gets to feel his heart flutter before he redoubles his efforts at foolishness.
For now, he has Bj, warm and solid against his shoulder; someone worth holding onto and aching for.
Sometimes when we touch,
The honesty’s too much,
And I have to close my eyes and hide.
I wanna hold you ‘til I die,
‘Til we both break down and cry,
I wanna hold you, ‘til the fear in me subsides.
Bj stares at the crisp, clean page, pen in hand and tries not to sigh again. If he makes any more of a production about not knowing what to write, Hawkeye will notice and they’ll have to discuss it, even if it’s just to set up a joke.
The last person he want to discuss this with is Hawkeye. The person he really wants to unburden himself to is also a bad choice. He's been warned before about wrecking his marriage because of his own guilty conscience.
He's never worried about subversive material in his letters, but this one would subvert just about everything the world thinks it knows about Dr. Bj Hunnicutt.
Flagg would have him in handcuffs before the end of the day.
Dear Peg,
I'm in love all over again.
Maybe he could half write it and leave it for Hawkeye to find. The man isn’t above reading other people’s mail if it promises a moment of entertainment. The problem is that Bj isn’t ready for that. He’s not ready to face what it means about him, about his life, about that man he thought he was.
Your last letter made me realize how much I miss everything about you. He writes, feeling like a coward. Bj’s last letter home was more about Hawkeye than himself, peppered with phrases Hawkeye has invented to describe the war, painted with tales of Hawkeye’s antics and fraught with worries over Hawkeye’s moods.
It’s not fair, he writes, and then throws the pencil down.
Hawkeye is lounging in his cot a few paces away, absorbed in his hometown newspaper, occasionally reading out an amusing anecdote. Bj lets his eyes linger on the dexterous hands, the contented expression, the two days stubble.
How do I tell you, Peg, he composes in his head, what he’s like? Can you hear it already in my letters?
He watches Hawkeye arrange himself more comfortably, forever fidgeting.
You should see the way he moves, like he contains far too much energy for one person. You should see how he operates,
In and out of the hospital, Hawkeye’s voice adds in his head and Bj has to stifle a chuckle.
You’d be amazed how much he cares about people. I know if you met him, you’d understand what I mean. He puts his whole heart into every patient and every cause.
Hawkeye shifts again, one hand held up to block the sunlight slanting in through the open flaps. His expression has turned wistful and Bj can tell he’s come to the announcements; births, anniversaries, deaths.
Bj leans back on his own cot, trying to quell the ache in his chest, keeps writing his mental confession.
And you should see the way he’s hurting, Peg. He has the weight of too many lives, too many losses on his shoulders. He’s raging against a system he can’t beat and that might be the only thing keeping him from giving up. I cheer his every victory and I wonder if I could help, if only I had the courage to reach out. Peggy, maybe you would understand, maybe you wouldn’t, but after all it’s me who can’t take the first step.
“Penny for your thoughts?”
Hawkeye has the paper folded across his chest, holding home close to his heart.
“Depression’s over. Thoughts are worth a nickel now.” Bj answers easily, longing to pull the other man close, to chase away the hint of sadness in his eyes and feel his heartbeat against his chest.
“You give up on your letter?”
“I don’t know what to write. You done with your paper?”
Hawkeye hands it over.
“Our old neighbour died.”
“Oh?” Bj keeps the newspaper folded, keeps his eyes on Hawkeye, who has slipped into a memory.
“You know, she used to give me a ride into town sometimes if she saw me walking. She drove this old truck with no mirrors or headlights and she always talked about pottery.”
He gives Bj a funny half smile.
“I thought she was strange as hell. Funny how you think of people differently when they’re gone, when you’re gone.”
Bj unfolds the paper to cover his wince. Someday, God willing, they’ll go home and he’ll have to fix an image of Hawkeye in his heart like that.
Remember that guy I lived with in Korea? He’d tell Peg. The one with all of the crazy jokes? Great surgeon, made me question my whole life. I thought he was the tops.
“What?”
It’s possible he’s made a sound of abject grief. His eyes are stinging.
“This makes me homesick and I’ve never even been to Maine.” He says to lighten the mood.
“I’d love to visit some time.”
“If we ever get out of here, I’ll give you the grand tour.” Hawkeye promises him, expression bright again.
“French toast with real maple syrup, a day at the beach, trout fishing, a campfire under the stars…”
“Sounds romantic.” Bj teases him, basking in the warmth of the fantasy.
“I’d have to return the favour.”
Could a man have two homes, he wonders as Hawkeye goes on, waxing poetic about the East coast. Could he break off sections of his heart like that and send them in different directions?
“Local baking contest ends in arm wrestling fiasco.” He reads, watching Hawkeye beam with hometown pride.
Hawkeye gives a piece of his heart to everyone. Bj want nothing more than to fill the hole with whatever he can spare.
At times I’d like to break you,
And drive you to your knees.
At times I’d like to breakthrough,
And hold you endlessly.
The kiss knocks their teeth together.
Bj has both hands fisted in the front of his robe and Hawkeye has him by the dog tags. They’re drunk and wired and exhausted. Hawkeye isn’t sure who pulled who in first.
He throws subtlety and self control out the window and dives in, working his tongue into Bj’s mouth like a man starving. He feels the tickle of that damned mustache and the softness of Bj’s lips and he forgets about the consequences as the adrenaline rushes in, the same way he does when he’s disobeying generals.
Eyes closed, he feels Bj lean into him, hands moving to grip his arms.
Things are eerily silent save the sounds of their ragged breathing and meeting skin. Hawkeye lets himself be pulled closer, fighting off a wave of shame and arousal. Is he drunk enough to forget that he’s only a stand in right now? Is he drunk enough to let Bj forget it?
No.
They seem to remember themselves and pull away at the same time. Even playing this flat, discordant note they’re in sync. Bj looks lost, unbelievably torn, with his mouth hanging open and his lips wet. He starts to speak and the fear in Hawkeye’s gut blooms into tangible pain.
He can’t let this man confess to him. He can’t stand to let him voice a rejection either.
“You should finish that letter to your wife.” He slurs, trying to punish them both. Bj reels back like he’s been hit and recovers with hot fury dancing in his eyes. Hawkeye braces for a blow and relaxes with a huff when the other man turns away.
Part of him wants to shout it all out, once and for all. He wants to insist right in Bj’s face that Hawkeye is the sanest of either of them for not allowing Bj to leap off this bridge. How dare he make Hawkeye the victim and the villain when all Hawkeye wants is to stop him from tearing himself apart.
The more sober, apathetic part of him retreats to his cot to be miserable as pointedly as possible while Bj sulks at the stove.
He imagines an eternity in Korea without an answering line, without his arm around Bj’s warm shoulders. He hugs himself tight against the future, the endless barrage of mortal fire and bloody bodies with only silence from the other cot.
“Cookie?”
Hawkeye peers at the dented tin, lets his gaze travel up the unsteady arm to squint at Bj’s face, trying to focus through the haze.
“Thanks.”
His mouth is far too dry to eat, but he accepts the treat for the olive branch it is.
Bj seems relieved.
“This was an- a misstep.” He says slowly, avoiding the word accident.
“I don’t want it to change anything.”
His hand finds Hawkeye’s shoulder and squeezes gently. Hawkeye’s lungs feel a bit less constricted. He reaches out, squeezes back.
“It doesn’t have to.”
It should change everything, but they can’t afford for that to happen. The punched out feeling doesn’t surprise him, but Bj’s stuttering breaths do.
“I just-“ The man sniffs. Hawkeye nods his head.
“I know.”
It will always be there between them, just like the unspoken knowledge that when the war is over, if it ever is, they’ll go home to their opposite coasts and live out their separate lives. They’ll stow the what ifs from tonight with the grief for what could have been if they had met anywhere but this hellhole and the wonder of the possibility that they might never have met at all.
Hawkeye sets all that aside and makes room for Bj on the cot. They resume drinking and eating cookies that were probably half stale when they arrived, courtesy of a woman who looms like a forlorn spectre over the tent.
“You know,” Bj says quietly, his attention mostly on the empty tin. He goes on to prove he’s even better than Hawkeye at twisting the knife.
“Kissing you is a lot easier on my neck.”
Hawkeye laughs, a little thin, a little more drunken than he really feels.
What else is there to do?
Three Years Later
He can feel Bj’s arms around him in a parting hug on his worst nights and his best. The man is more than just a picture in his head, more tangible than movie seen in his childhood. Still, the animated image is slowly losing its colour and sound.
He picks up the phone, but can’t bring himself to dial. He wants to hear that deep, soft voice, but he doesn’t know what to ask or what to say in return. All he can do is rebuild his life around the empty space in it and get by the best he can on the essentials.
He’s good at that.
When the letter comes he drops everything, marvels at how easily hesitation gives way to desperation now that he can feel the empty space beside him.
His feet are on the tarmac in San Francisco before the world stops spinning.
His eyes land on Bj, greying at the temples, in his pink Henley, still sporting the cheesy mustache, like he’s not sure Hawkeye will recognize him without his rebellious uniform. He wants to sprint across the parking lot to meet him, but he keeps walking.
Somehow, denial is still holding him back, making his feet heavy. The letter burns in his jacket pocket.
I love you. It says simply. I need you.
He walks on through the mist and fog, searching for answers on Bj’s face in the reserved smile and the fond eyes.
He looks so uncertain, Bj thinks, letting the anticipation build as he watches Hawkeye cross the lot.
It’s almost comical now that Bj is sure. He’s never been se sure of anything in his life.
So he waits, drinking in the sights he’s been dying to see since his second day home. He savors the permanent slouch, the mop of silver hair and the crows’ feet that form when Hawkeye draws near to him and smiles.
Bj sweeps him into a crushing hug and swears to himself that he will never let go.
“I missed you.”
Out of the vacuum of his time in Korea has stepped the missing piece of his heart, holding him tighter as the words come stuttering out.
“God, I’ve missed you.”
“I’m here.”
Now that they’re together they can figure it all out.
The kitchen of the beach house is blue and weathered tan, perfectly matched to the soft shoreline and the driftwood on the windowsill. They’ve put the kitchen table between them, one last obstacle. The hand thrown coffee mugs are filled with scotch.
They should have everything to say to one another, years of empty air to fill, but silence lingers.
“Jet lag?” Bj smiles at Hawkeye’s yawn.
The uncertainty is back.
“Haven’t slept well since Korea.” Hawkeye admits and Bj can feel the doubt creeping in. Maybe all these years later they still can’t admit it. Maybe they’ll sit here in silent longing until Hawkeye gives up and flies home.
A ball of pain forms in his throat, choking him as he tries to force that words out. Anything to get them started.
“I didn’t have you to hold me when I woke up screaming.” Hawkeye murmurs, almost apologetic. He looks up from his mug and some of the age melts off of his face.
They stand in unison, reaching, bridging the gap of years and circumstances. It’s a tidal wave pulling them under. Bj has to remind himself not to bruise where he’s grasping Hawkeye’s hip. If he could pull hard enough to crush them together, he just might, would fuse them into one being never to be parted again. He groans at the dueling urges that flare within him: the desire to claim and the impulse to break down entirely. Hawkeye’s lips are chapped, his under eyes dark, his jaw sharp, but to Bj he’s perfect. He’s like fine liquor, sharp and sweet.
“I love you. I need you.” Hawkeye murmurs against the corner of his mouth, settling against him, so comfortable in his arms.
“I always will.”
Sometimes when we touch,
The honesty’s too much,
And I have to close my eyes and hide.
I wanna hold you ‘til I die,
‘Til we both break down and cry,
I wanna hold you, til the fear in me subsides.
Fin.