Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Do you have the clamp?” BJ asks, and Hawkeye nearly stops the Jeep. The entire goal of this trip is to demonstrate their microclamp to a nearby(ish) unit, so it’s a bit late in the game to ask that question. 

“What do I mean, do I have the clamp? We’ve been driving for five hours.”

“Well, do you?”

“I thought you were supposed to bring it.”

“Shut up; I know you have it,” BJ laughs. 

“Tell me, what would you have done if I’d said no?”

“I’d have said ‘Hawk, you’re my best friend, and we’re gonna figure this out together.’”

“Heartwarming, but I’m afraid not so constructive.”

“Then it’s a good thing you have it.”

“Who said I have it?” he asks lightly. Still, for all BJ’s efforts to keep his spirits up, it takes only a moment for the road ahead to reclaim his focus and tighten the muscles in his shoulders and neck, prompting the pained expression BJ had been hoping to alleviate to wash over his face again.

“You’re sure you don’t need me to take over driving?” he asks. “You look beat.”

“It’s not much further. I’m just sore.” 

“You’ll feel better after you move around a bit.”

“Actually, I’m looking forward to lying down,” he admits. “I’m exhausted.”

“That works, too,” BJ says. “Just let me know if you need me to drive.” 

“Mhm,” he hums, pressing his hand idly to his temple once again without another word.

The second that his temporary bed is in his line of sight about an hour later, Hawkeye’s arms give out, his meager luggage falling to the floor with a thud. 

“Tired?” BJ asks, even though he knows the answer. It’s obvious just by looking at him: his pale face, his glassy eyes, his slumped posture. He leaves his bags where they land and beelines for the bed, immediately lying face down. 

“Don’t get too comfortable,” BJ says, as if that’s a possibility here. “If we don’t get to the mess soon, we’re going to miss dinner.”

“Good riddance.” 

“Come on, Hawk. I know you’re tired, but you haven’t eaten all day. You’ve got to be hungry.” 

“Nauseous, actually.” BJ frowns. 

“From the drive?” 

“Probably. I think I’m just going to turn in early.” 

“It’s not even dark out.” 

“Sleep. I’ll have a big breakfast tomorrow, promise.” Then, he’s asleep too fast for BJ to argue. He’ll bring him a plate, he thinks. It’ll be cold, but at least it’ll be something. For now, he moves Hawkeye’s luggage from the doorway and places a blanket over him. 

By the time BJ checks in with the Colonel and eats dinner, he’s not expecting Hawkeye to still be sleeping. The drive hadn’t been that long, and it’s been over an hour and a half since he crashed into bed. However, that’s where he finds him, on his side, facing the tent wall opposite the doorway. He approaches the bed and shakes his shoulder lightly. 

“Hawkeye,” he calls, “wake up.” 

“Mm?” he groans. “What do you want? I’m trying to sleep.”

“You’ve been succeeding. The Colonel wants us to take a little tour of the camp so we can familiarize ourselves.”

“Why don’t you do the tour and I’ll go where you go for the next few days?”

“Then what if I get lost? We’ll both be AWOL.” Hawkeye doesn’t move. “Come on, I’m sure it won't take long. I’m tired, too. We’ll hit the hay as soon as we finish, yeah?”

He doesn’t look convinced, and honestly, when he sits up, he can see plainly why he’s complaining. Sleep clearly needs to come sooner rather than later, but this is important. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be insisting, and Hawkeye knows it. 

“Ugh. Alright. Show me to the gondola.”

Their tour guide, a lovely nurse named Jean, takes them from their tent to the OR to post-op to the mess, explaining every tent in between. 

“These are the nurses’ tents,” she points, and BJ braces himself for a joke that doesn’t come. In fact, Hawkeye has been quiet through the entire thing. He’s pretty sure he didn’t introduce himself. BJ had done that for the both of them. Had he even shaken her hand?

He decides to keep a close eye on him. What could be annoyance at his lack of participation is quickly overshadowed by pity. With every passing minute he looks a little paler, his eyes a little duller. 

“This is a pretty big camp you’ve got here,” Hawkeye says breathlessly as they approach the mess tent. The short walk seems to have been enough to tucker him out, so it’s a good thing this is the last stop.

“Is it?” she asks. “I didn’t think we’re bigger than the 4077th” 

“They’re pretty similar,” BJ interjects. “I think he’s just tired.”

“Oh!” Jean chirps, getting the hint. “I’ll get you back to your tent next. This is the mess. The food isn’t great, but it’s tepid, inoffensive, and vaguely identifiable.”

“What more can you ask for?” BJ asks. When Hawkeye suddenly reaches out and grabs his shoulder, he thinks at first that he’s finally taking the opportunity to make a joke, but it quickly becomes apparent that’s not the case when he puts his weight into it. He’s not just getting his attention—he’s steadying himself. BJ turns around expecting to chat and ends up grabbing him by the arms as he wobbles on his own feet. 

“Woah!” he exclaims as Hawkeye’s knees nearly go out from under him. He manages to catch himself, but not without BJ’s help. 

“Dr. Pierce!” 

“Easy,” he says calmly, helping to ease him to the ground with his head between his knees. “You okay?”

“Sorry, sorry. Just got a little vertigo for a second, there,” he explains, face pallid and sweat-sheened and genuinely miserable. Guilt creeps in. Maybe he should have just let him sleep. 

“It’s been a long day,” BJ says sympathetically, hand never leaving his shoulder. “I think we’ve got the gist of the layout, so we should probably get some rest.”

“Of course,” Jean agrees. “Let me see you back to your tent.” 

“Think you can walk that far?” BJ asks. Hawkeye nods, but whether that’s genuine or because he just wants to go back to bed is up for debate. “Alright. Up we go.”

The going is slow, but they manage to reach the tent and get him lying down. Jean retrieves a cup of orange juice and tells them to let her know if they need anything, then departs for the evening. Hawkeye sips at his juice a little at a time. 

“I probably should have brought you something from the mess tent for dinner. I don’t know why I didn’t think to.”

“Not your fault, Beej. I wouldn’t have eaten it, anyway.”

“Stomach’s still choppy?”

“My other organs are hoisting the main sails.” A few red flags raise.

“You shouldn’t still be motion sick. It’s been hours.”

“I’m starting to think it’s a migraine,” he replies, shoving his face into his pillow. “My head’s killing me now, too.” 

“You could have told me that earlier. I wouldn’t have forced you on that tour. Want me to bring you something for it?” 

“I’m just going to sleep it off. I’ll be fine in the morning.” 

“Okay. But let me know if you change your mind.” 

“Will do,” he promises before rolling over on his side. It’s rare for him to get this ill, BJ thinks. Exhaustion is usually a bonding experience, and he’s never shy about reveling in the misery, especially when he’s got a captive audience—say, someone who is empathetic, owes him for a long drive, and has offered to get him anything he needs. For him to be so isolated and quiet is unusual. 

“Hawk,” he says quietly. “Remember to take your boots off.” 

“Hm,” is the only answer he gets before deciding it’s probably best to give him some peace and quiet. 

It’s boring to have to go solo for the rest of the evening. He’d known that Hawkeye would be tired, but he’d expected that to end in a few beers at the officer’s club, not an early sleep in a dark, silent room. BJ chats up a few of the other doctors, explaining that Hawkeye would be with them if it weren’t for a bad migraine, so they show him the medicine cabinet in case he changes his mind on taking something for it. They seem nice enough, even nicer when they offer to buy him a drink for a glimpse at the microclamp a little early. 

By the time he’s ready for bed, he’s had two beers, made three new friends, and is feeling pretty good. Hawkeye is still passed out, has barely moved. There’s a small part of him, some instinct that wants to wake him to check in, but he quickly stifles it. There’s no need, and it would only piss him off to be pulled from sleep just to satisfy a strange hunch. Instead, he changes, then notices something—Hawkeye hasn’t even taken his shoes off. 

They’ve all been there. Hawkeye has pulled bloody scrubs off BJ when he’s too exhausted to move to do it himself. He’s even helped Charles into pyjamas a few times when he’s been hunched over a patient for so many hours his shoulders spasm just thinking about moving them. It’s not that it’s new to him to remove his boots, but it does strike him as odd, especially given that he’d reminded him before he’d fallen asleep. Some kind of risk vs. reward assessment had been run and come up in favor of sleeping in his shoes rather than take them off himself or ask for help. Just how bad is this migraine?

He tugs at the laces and gently wiggles them off his feet without waking him. For a long moment, his gaze lingers over his sleeping form, hoping that he’ll somehow be able to diagnose a problem lurking under the surface if he looks long enough. 

He promised he’d sleep this off, he reminds himself. Said he’d be fine in the morning. 

With that, he changes and settles into bed himself. 

But bad things always happen in the middle of the night. Whether it’s patients suddenly circling the drain or more wounded coming in by chopper, it feels like it’s always right in the middle of his sleep cycle. When BJ wakes from a rare good dream, he doesn’t know what woke him, but something feels off. He waits for a moment. Most likely he’d been pulled from sleep by a sound, so he’s silent and still until he hears it again. 

Fabric rustling. Wood creaking. 

To his surprise, it’s Hawkeye, thrashing periodically in bed. 

“Hawkeye,” he whispers. It’s been a while since he’s had night terrors, but perhaps it’s nerves. BJ is feeling some, too. All he knows is that if he doesn’t stop this before the peak of the nightmare, it’s going to be a whole lot worse in a few minutes. 

“Hey, Hawkeye.”

He thrashes again, too deeply asleep to reply. Reluctantly, BJ gets to his feet and crouches beside Hawkeye’s with the intent of soothing him, but up close, he can see trouble. He’s not just thrashing, but shivering, too, and badly. In the low light of the lantern he flips on, his face is even paler than it was a few hours ago, and his shirt is covered in sweat. Now, with a little more urgency, he reaches out and shakes his shoulder, gently at first, then a little more, then with a surprising amount of force. He’s normally such a light sleeper. Something is very wrong. 

He bolts up in bed, breathing hard and fast and looking like he’s going to try to run if BJ doesn’t put his hand to his chest as if to tell him to stay down, that he’s safe, that whatever he’s seeing in his sleep that can’t hurt him half as bad as being awake. Sticky, humid heat radiates off of him, so he moves his hand to Hawkeye’s forehead, then his cheeks. 

“Jesus,” he mutters. “Hawkeye, are you with me?” 

His eyes scan the room, frantic and unfocused, and his breathing isn’t slowing.

“Hey, hey. It’s okay. You had a nightmare.” He gives him a moment to process that, to slow his rapid respiration and heart rate, before dropping bad news. “You’re burning up. How are you feeling?” 

“Like I might need to see a doctor,” the admits. 

“I think I know a guy. I’m going to go to raid their med cabinet and see what I can scrounge up for that fever. Think you could eat something?”

“Just the pills, Beej. I can’t.” 

“Alright. I won’t force it on you right now. Don’t go to sleep until I come back to look you over.”

“Hm,” he lies. 

By the time BJ returns to their temporary tent with supplies, he has to wake him once more, and it’s no easier than it had been the first time. He’s agitated, scared, even. BJ hands over a thermometer and fiddles around while he waits for the reading. 

“Your pulse is racing,” he announces, two fingers pressed to the inside of his wrist.

“Just a nightmare.” 

“Yeah, I don’t think so. How long have you been feeling this bad?” BJ hangs a bottle of Ringer’s lactate from the IV pole and slips the needle into Hawkeye’s arm.

“Not sure. Just kept feeling worse every time I woke up.”

“You should have said something. Are you in pain anywhere? Head still bothering you?” 

“Everything hurts. Feels like I got run over by the Jeep.” That doesn’t sound good. 

“Sounds like you’re coming down with the flu.”

“No, no. Can’t be.”

“Why not?”

“We have surgery tomorrow.” 

“Unfortunately, viruses don’t tend to check your schedule. You’re gonna have to pencil it in.” 

“I told you, it’s a migraine.” 

“Not with a fever like this,” he argues as he takes the thermometer and reads it. “Over 102. That’s it. You’re barred from surgery until we can bring it down.” 

“The Ringer’s will help,” he says, “and throw in an antipyretic. I’ll be fine in the morning.” 

“Yeah, you’ve been saying that. It doesn’t seem like denial is the best medicine.” 

“I’m not in denial; I’m walking by faith.” 

“Well, there better be only one set of footprints leading to the OR tomorrow, and I’m not carrying you. Stop fighting me on this. Please.” 

Disappointment is clear on his face, which is natural. Of course he wants to help introduce something he’d been so vital in inventing, something so revolutionary and important. However, there’s no way that the misery isn’t just as loud.

“Just—we’ll talk in the morning. I can’t think straight.” 

“That would be the fever popping your neurons like popcorn. You’re benched, Hawk. Can’t we do this the easy way for once?”

“I’d like to appeal to a higher court.” 

“Appeal denied. I don’t want to have to get the Colonels involved, but if you tie my hands, I’ll have no choice but to issue a bench warrant.”

“Teacher’s pet. If the pursuit of happiness is my protected right, then so is the pursuit of misery.”

“Yeah, yeah. Lady Justice weeps. Lie down and close your eyes. Fever reducer’s not going to help if you don’t chill out.”

“You get some sleep too, yeah? Staring at me’s not going to break the fever.”

BJ nods. Hawkeye knows him too well. 

“Only if you promise to actually wake me if you start to feel worse this time.”

“You have my word.” 

What wakes him, luckily, is not Hawkeye, but his alarm. He doesn’t even waste time putting on pants before crossing the room and sitting, once more, on the edge of Hawkeye’s bed. The alarm had woken him, too, and he’s rubbing his eyes.

“Good morning, sunshine,” he greets. “How are you feeling today?”

“Bit better than last night,” he admits, and BJ has to give it to him—he looks it, too. A little sleep had done a good deal for the pallor of his face, and he looks more focused and alert. 

“Yeah? That’s good. Your color’s better.” He hands over the thermometer. “You know the drill.” 

Much to his relief, he has to spend the next two minutes trying to keep him quiet, a sign he knows means he’s telling the truth about feeling at least a little better. The thermometer agrees. 

“100.7,” he announces. “That makes me feel a lot better.”

“Must’ve been a 24 hour thing.”

“Well, you’re not out of the woods yet, but it’s better than yesterday.” 

“I was getting worried I wasn’t going to be able to help you with the clamp in the OR.” 

BJ frowns. 

“I’m afraid I’m going to have to confirm that fear. You’re still feverish, Hawk. I know you feel better, but you were pretty sick last night. You should get some more rest.” 

“It’s one surgery, Beej. I can handle it.”

“Look, I know it’s disappointing, but don’t make me be your mother, here. Be reasonable.” 

“I’ve operated through worse.”

“Yeah, in emergencies. This isn’t an emergency.” 

As if to intentionally undermine him, that, yes, that, is when the sirens choose to sound. To his credit, Hawkeye masks most of his vindication. 

Most of it.

“I’m not saying a word,” Hawkeye rubs it in. 

“It’s more of a superior aura than an outright gloat.” 

“I’ve been taking field notes on Charles.” 

“It’s working. You’ve never been haughtier.” 

“Don’t say that; it’ll go straight to my head.” 

They continue to banter and bicker all the way to the OR, where Hawkeye introduces himself to the medical staff, apologizes for the migraine (which he does not disclose was actually a fever that he’s still running), and scrubs up. 

As Hawkeye is wont do do, he carries on. No matter how hot it gets in the OR, he doesn’t complain, even when he’s sweating so much that the nurses joke they should dedicate one of them just to sponging his face. 

Not even when he starts shivering again. Yes, BJ sees it, even if he doesn’t say a word. He can’t exactly see the tremors, but theres a certain posture a man takes when he’s fighting chills, a sort of hunch, pulling his arms too far in toward himself when the heat should be urging him to starfish out. He stays silent. 

Shortly after that, it’s obvious that the headache is returning. It must be bad, because he asks a nurse for aspirin. When he reaches out for it, he’s slow, deliberate. Is his body aching, too? 

Perhaps some of it is speculation, more even is worry, but BJ is pretty sure that if he’s reading the signs right, they’re all pointing to the fact that Hawkeye is miserable, getting more so by the hour. And, because he’s Hawkeye, he’s not going to say a word until they’re finished. 

That time comes about six hours later. The rush of wounded was small, but critical, and had required all hands on deck even though they managed to knock them all out after taking no more than three patients each. By the time Hawkeye finishes, BJ is just about ready to apply the microclamp to his last patient, and, well. Given how brave he’d been through all of this, it would be a shame to deny him the opportunity to demo this instrument for an extra 30 minutes just to put him to bed. He’s made it this far—what’s an extra half hour?

“What can I do?” Hawkeye asks, freshly gloved hands hovering over the man on the table. 

“You want to do the honors?” 

Hawkeye smiles under his mask. 

“Thought you’d never ask.” He applies the microclamp and BJ is happy to let him soak up the oohs and aahs from the medical staff. It doesn’t escape his notice, however, that when they begin asking questions, Hawkeye makes no move to answer them. Well, he thinks, that’s okay. He’s exhausted, but he’s earned this. BJ is happy to let him just be arm candy for a little while—

Until twenty minutes later, when things decidedly go south. His grip has been slackening and readjusting for the past few minutes, and he’s been shifting a lot on his feet. Though he’d been willing to write those things off as exhaustion and an eagerness to be finished, the wrongness of his assumptions hits him full force. 

“I’m not feeling so well,” Hawkeye says suddenly, his voice watery and weak. 

“We’re just going to be a few more minutes, promise.”

“Beej, I’m serious,” he implores. “I’m seeing spots.” 

Oh, shit. 

“Someone hold the clamp,” BJ demands, “and somebody else help him out of here.”  The nurses waste no time springing into action. Two of them stand on either side of Hawkeye, gently guiding toward the door by the elbows. Before BJ can even look up from his patient, there’s a crash, and startled shouts fill the room. When he can finally afford to take a glance toward them, he sees something that makes his heart race: Hawkeye is on the ground, eyes closed, immoble, with the nurses kneeling by his side, dragging him in an undignified manner across the floor because they can’t lift him themselves but they also can’t leave him near the worst of the foot traffic. 

“Check his temperature and blood pressure. He was feverish last night.” One retrieves a thermometer while the other presses her hand to his forehead and cheeks.

“He’s boiling,” she announces. 

“Damn it, Hawk. I knew this was too much. Get him to post-op and get him sponged until his temp is down. Give him fluids and get his sugar up.”

“He’s waking up,” the nurse crouched by his side exclaims. Hawkeye is moving a bit, slowly building control over his body. He sits up and reflexively clutches his temple. It’s either pain or vertigo, possibly both. 

“Dr. Pierce, can you hear me?”

“You’re shouting in my ear,” Hawkeye replies, and god, is that a relief. 

“Sorry,” she apologizes. “Gosh, how are you feeling? You fainted.”

He pauses.

“Really?”

“Why do you think you’re on the floor?” BJ snaps. He hates that he feels angry. Hawkeye couldn’t choose not to get sick, not to faint, and they’d both agreed that his fever was low enough this morning to operate through an emergency. 

He suspects that’s not the case anymore. 

The feeling is panic-rage, nothing more. He takes a breath before he replies. Though he’ll allow himself to chastise later, he won’t yell. 

“I won’t be much longer here. Do you think you could stand so we can get you off this floor?”

“With a little help,” he says. BJ can’t even glance up to watch the nurses help him to his feet and shuffle out of the OR.

“Doctor, are you sure you can finish this?” Jean asks. Apparently she’s the one who’d grabbed the clamp. BJ nods. 

“Of course. Keep holding just like that.” 

He sheds just the bloody scrubs before beelining straight for post-op to find Hawkeye. A nurse leads him to where he’s lying back in bed, eyes shut and huddled under a blanket. Though BJ doesn’t want to bother him if he’s finally getting some real rest, he’s too worried to do anything but sit at the foot of his bed and pat his feet. 

“You awake?”

Hawkeye cracks open his eyes. 

“I am now.”

“Sorry. How are you feeling?”

Hawkeye shrugs, which tells him more than whatever answer he’s about to give will.

“Sorry about fainting on you in OR. I really didn’t know that was going to happen.”

“Of course you didn’t,” BJ says. “I know that. What happened?”

“Temperature was up, and since I haven’t been drinking much the past two days, the dehydration didn’t help. Not sure if it was my BP dipping or my heart rate spiking, but fluids are helping.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“Hey, boys,” the Colonel greets gruffly, clearly displeased with today’s happenings in his OR. “Dr. Pierce, how are you feeling?”

“Better. I’m sorry about all the trouble.”

“Nonsense. Just glad to see you back on your feet.” Is that what he’s calling this? He checks the bottle of Ringer’s and nods. “Do you think you’ll need another bottle before you two hit the road? I can get one started.”

“Hit the road?” BJ parrots. “Do you think that’s such a good idea? He’s still running a pretty good fever.”

“We’ll send you with plenty of antipyretics to keep him cool and comfortable through your ride, but our doctors are already on their way back. If you boys don’t leave soon, the 4077th is going to be without two of its brightest surgeons.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere,” Hawkeye says, “but it will get us out of your hair.”

“Hawk, are you sure?”

“It’s just a few hours. I’ll have some aspirin and take a nap in the back, and we’ll be there before we know it. Don’t worry so much.”

“Do you have objections, Hunnicut?” 

The man is tall, broad, and intimidating in ways he might not be controlling but sure as hell is utilizing to his advantage. As much as he wants to argue, it doesn’t seem wise, especially if Hawkeye seems so confident that he’s feeling well enough to make the drive. And he has a point—BJ will do the driving, and Hawkeye can rest in the back. If they keep him on antipyretics, theoretically, he shouldn’t end up too much worse for wear. Still, he’s got a bad feeling. He’d prefer to wait until he’s at least over the worst of the flu before putting him in a Jeep and sending them back. 

But he never gets his way.

“None, sir. Again, we’re sorry about the trouble, and thanks for your hospitality.”

“Come again any time,” he says, and with that, Hawkeye sits up to begin the process of heading home. 

Another hour finds BJ in the driver’s seat of a fully loaded Jeep, Hawkeye lying in the back seat on fever reducers and pain meds. 

“I really don’t like this,” BJ says when they’re out of earshot of the Colonel. “Hawk, you really don’t look well, and I know you don’t feel good, either. Are you sure you can make this drive?”

“I’ll just rest back here,” he replies. “About as comfortable as an army cot.”

“Yeah, until we start moving. The bumps are going to be hell on your headache.” 

“They gave me some pretty good painkillers, and a dose for the road. I won’t feel a thing. Might even get in a little nap.”

“I doubt that.”

“Maybe if you sing to me?”

“Doubt that even more.”

“Fine. In any case, I’ll be fine. It’s just six hours, and I won’t lift a finger. Few hours of discomfort, then I can fall back into bed and sleep for a week.”

“You’ll have earned it.”

“Wait!” a voice calls, and when they look up, it’s Jean, offering up a bag and smiling. “I packed a few snacks for the road, just in case you get hungry. Do you need anything else before you go? Hawkeye?” 

“We’ll be fine,” he reassures her with a smile that does NOT reassure BJ. “Thank you for thinking of us. Very sweet.”

“Call in if you get into any trouble, and when you get back to your camp. I’ll be waiting up to hear from you.”

“We will,” BJ promises. “Thank you for your kindness, really. You’ve been great.”

She grins. 

“So long,” she calls as they shift the Jeep into gear, “and stay in touch!” 

With that, they’re on the road once more, heading back toward the 4077th with nothing but high hopes and a bad feeling in the pit of BJ’s stomach. 

An hour passes, then two, then three. What’s normally a stupid time filled with giddy laughter (and sometimes, way too often, some poor choices) is now just BJ and the road. It gives him plenty of time to get far too into his own thoughts, which turn pretty quickly to Hawkeye. Quiet, still Hawkeye, who looks a little paler, a little more flushed, a little more exhausted every time he looks back on him. Though he wants to give him space and rest, he can only bite his tongue for so long. After almost four hours of silence, he calls out. 

“How are you doing back there?”

At first, he gets no response. His heart rate feels like it doubles. 

“Hawk?” he calls. “Answer me, buddy.” 

“Fine,” he replies, but it’s tight. “Think I might need to redose on those meds.” 

BJ frowns. 

“The fever reducers or the painkillers?”

“Both.”

“You’re feeling worse?”

“Like you wouldn’t believe.” 

Oh, god. That’s it. That’s what he’s been waiting for, what he’s been scared of, why they shouldn’t have left the damn camp until he was over this, why they shouldn’t have let that asshole Colonel push them around—

Then, before he can even stop the Jeep to assess his state, it starts. A shot. 

He swerves. 

Right into another, two, five, a barrage. 

“Get down!” BJ shouts, but it’s too little too late. Before the next thought is even fully formed in his head, the next shot takes out the front tire, and the swerve he has to do to keep them from being literally goddamn killed sends them careening down a ditch, one door over another over another—

And then, it’s black. 

Chapter Text

The pain takes a few beats longer to wake than BJ does. When he opens his eyes, he wastes his last painless seconds on confusion. Why is he lying on the ground? Why is Hawkeye shaking his shoulder, calling his name so desperately?

“BJ!” he implores, tone fearful and hushed. “BJ, can you hear me?”

“Hawk,” he replies, then it hits him. First, the memory: the shelling, the crash. Then, the pain. He hisses and instinctively tries to curl toward the wound on his leg, but Hawkeye stops him. 

“Don’t move yet.” 

He looks down to assess the damage and realizes why he’s intervening: a huge spot of blood in the middle of his shin, right where the worst of the pain is. By the time his head is clear enough to think of anything other than the initial panic, Hawkeye is tearing off his own jacket and tying it tightly around the wound. 

“Were you hurt?”

“No, I’m fine. We have to move,” he says urgently. 

“I can’t—”

“I know,” he curtails. “I’m going to help you.” 

In his furious need to get to safety, BJ doesn’t even think about whether he can handle that. Hawkeye wasn’t hurt, and they’re not safe where they are. He nods, allowing Hawkeye to drape his arm over his shoulder and hoist him upright. It hurts so much he can’t suppress a groan of pain. 

“You okay?” 

BJ nods. 

“Let’s just get out of here.” 

Within 30 seconds of rising, the sensation of heat radiating off Hawkeye’s body reminds him of something that panic had made him put on the back burner: the fever. He’s burning up, sweating and trembling already. Is it fear, or fatigue?

“You’re shaking,” he points out. 

“Freezing,” Hawk replies. He’d been dreading that possibility. Nerves and weakness, they might have been able to deal with, but it’s so hot that BJ’s shirt is damp with sweat. He shouldn’t be cold. His fever is going up. 

“We’ll get you more aspirin as soon as we’re out of the line of fire. Just hang on a few more minutes.” 

They don’t walk far—BJ isn’t sure that Hawkeye can. It’s just enough to get them out of the way of the shelling. While he’s still fearful that they could be hurt, they can only push so far without fever reducers and pain medication. Misery is clear on Hawkeye’s face, in his taught posture, in the way he hasn’t said a word since they started moving. 

“Okay,” BJ says when they stop under cover of heavy brush, Hawkeye panting hard, “okay. Take a breather.” He fishes around in the med bag that Hawkeye had thankfully had the wherewithal to grab and removes the medicine and a flask of water. “Here. Drink.”

Hawkeye takes the water and allows himself a few sips, then hands it over to BJ. 

“Come on, more than that. You’ve got a bad fever. You know you’re dehydrated.”

“And you’ve lost blood,” Hawkeye reasons. “You need to drink, too.”

To satisfy his concern, and because he’s right, BJ allows himself a few good gulps, careful not to drain it dry. They’ll need to make it last. It could be several hours before anyone even thinks to start looking for them. 

“Take this for the fever,” BJ commands, dropping two aspirin into his hand, “and this for the pain.” Hawkeye shakes his head, placing the pain pills back into BJ’s palm as he swallows his antipyretics.

“You need these more than me.” 

“I’m not the one dragging a body all across creation. We both know you’re hurting.” 

“Yeah,” he snaps, “but you’re hurting more. I’m not taking them, so you might as well.”

“God, you’re impossible,” he says, but he knows. They both know. He’s going to take the pill because Hawkeye is right, the pain is unbearable. And there’s certainly nothing he can do to change his mind. No matter how unbearable Hawkeye’s pain is, BJ’s pain will come first. He swallows the pills. “Happy?”

“Thrilled,” he deadpans. “You’re hurt, I’m sick, we’re lost, the Jeep is wrecked, and Korea is exploding around us. What more could a guy ask for?”

“We need to find somewhere safe to wait for rescue. This underbrush is nice and all, but it doesn’t scream ‘home.’”

Hawkeye sighs. 

“I know what you’re going to say, but break it to me gently.”

“Unfortunately,” BJ says reluctantly, regretfully, guiltily, “that means you’re about to have probably the worst time of your life.” 

“Now, tell me the good news.”

BJ hesitates. There is no good news, not really. Anything he could think of would trivialize the sacrifice he’s making. What, he’s supposed to be happy for the sunny day?

“I’m not gonna leave your side.” He means it so literally that Hawkeye has to laugh. 

“Right. You’re my right hand man.” 

Hawkeye tosses BJ’s arm over his own and hoists him to his feet. This close, he can feel the warmth radiating off him insidiously. He shouldn’t even be out in this heat, let alone exerting himself in it.

“Go as slow as you need to,” he says, like it’s some kind of consolation. Another shell hitting nearby undermines the kind sentiment, forcing them hurrying off toward the thicker underbrush. 

BJ wants to say a lot of things. He wants to apologize, but that will only corner Hawkeye into saying it’s okay, and not doing that is one of the only small mercies he can give him right now. The space to complain without feeling like he’s got to comfort the person who’s literally leaning on him. Emotional strength is just about the only kind he can offer until they find somewhere to hide and wait for rescue. 

He wants to get Radar to start making calls and not stop until he reaches someone who can court marshal that asshole Colonel for gross negligence. When they do finally get home, he’s going to make sure he doesn’t get away with sending them on their way like this. Colonel Potter is going to agree, he knows it. Hell, everyone in the 4077th is going to want to have a word or two with this guy. 

He’s physically restraining himself from asking how Hawkeye is holding up. He’s already asked twice, and they’ve been walking for less than 15 minutes. It wouldn’t be so bad if they were chatting, but Hawkeye is silent. Unusually, terrifyingly silent. When BJ does try to engage him just to make sure he’s still lucid, he tries to keep it simple, and Hawkeye replies in turn. He points out rocks and holes on the ground, which Hawkeye avoids. He points out bugs and clouds, which Hawkeye ignores. He talks to him and talks to him and talks to him, hoping desperately to distract him from the misery of all this, but it just makes his suffering all the more obvious when, after about twenty minutes, Hawkeye asks him to please be quiet because his head hurts and he needs to focus on his feet. 

Ten minutes later, said feet begin dragging. Every so often, he won’t lift one foot high enough, and the toe will catch on the ground, causing stumbles that start almost imperceptible and slowly become more dramatic the longer they walk. God, he wants to offer another break, wants to be able to tell him to have a rest, that BJ will take the wheel for a little while. 

While he’s spiralling, he feels Hawkeye stumble once more, but this time, it’s with the threat of losing their balance. He throws out a hand and steadies himself on the trunk of a tree, but just as BJ expects him to quickly regain his balance enough to catch him before he falls, he buckles forward and gags. BJ doesn’t have enough time to react and sways forward to keep from falling straight on his face. Unfortunately, that requires the use of both feet on the ground, and he can’t bite back the harsh grunt of agony at the pain that explodes through his leg. 

For a moment, they’re both incapacitated. BJ ends up falling on his ass, doubling over clutching his injury. It only distracts him for a minute, though, because there’s something more important he needs to worry about: Hawkeye, who’s still losing the battle with his stomach. Because he hasn’t eaten in the past few days, there’s nothing to bring up but water and, worryingly, the fever reducers. They haven’t been down long enough to make a dent in his temperature. 

When he’s finally done, Hawkeye sinks to the ground using the trunk of the tree, visibly shaking, and puts his head between his knees. BJ shuffles over on his knees and places a hand on his damp back. 

“Talk to me,” BJ says quietly. “You okay?”

“Sorry,” he replies, forcing his gaze to meet BJ’s. “Didn’t mean to push you.”

“It wasn’t your fault. You didn’t answer my question.”

“I’m okay. Did I hurt you?”

“No. It hurt, but no harm done.” Hawkeye sits up straighter, seemingly a little less lightheaded. “You really need those fever reducers.”

“I tried.”

“Can we try again? Jean sent us with food. Maybe it won’t be so hard on your stomach if you eat something.”

As much as he doesn’t want to, Hawkeye knows he’s right. He’s nauseated, BJ can see it in his posture. Every move he makes is slow and deliberate so as not to jostle his head or his stomach. BJ digs through their pack to find a sandwich, ham and cheese, and tears the bread into smaller pieces. 

“This is the best we’ve got.” Hawkeye tentatively eats two bites, then swallows another dose of pills. “We’re gonna sit for a little while, see if we can’t get those to stay down.”

“You should eat, too.”

While he’s not exactly hungry, either, it’ll do them no good if both of them collapse, so he takes the other sandwich. The ham is dry and the bread is soggy. He thinks he sees a slice of American cheese, but he can’t taste it. 

“How long do you think the Colonel will wait to send someone looking for us?” 

“The Colonel? Radar’s going to send a chopper if I keep you out a minute past curfew.” Despite everything, Hawkeye chuckles. “Really, though. We left at 11:00, and so they’ll be expecting us around dinner, or a little before. We’re going to be home by midnight, I promise.”

It’s a promise he has no control over, but Hawkeye needs to hear it. Wandering around without an end in sight is too big, too terrifying to fathom, and BJ is firing on all cylinders. He can’t imagine what it’s like for Hawkeye, who has already been pushed well past the point of collapse. 

“Right,” he agrees. There’s no telling if he’s humoring him or taking it to heart. Probably something in between. 

“How’s the stomach feeling?” 

Hawkeye shuts his eyes and leans his head back against the tree. 

“We’re at odds,” he admits. 

“Who’s winning?”

“So far, it’s Love-15.”

“Deep breaths.” 

Hawkeye forces himself to his feet, heavily using the trunk of the tree. He’s more balanced on his two feet than he is standing, like leaning too far one way or another will send him toppling back ot the ground. 

“Eyes on the ball, coach,” he weakly teases as he drapes BJ’s arm over his shoulders once more and takes on his weight, steadier than he looks. The light tremor he feels isn’t his knees knocking, but his fevered body shivering with chills. In what would should that be good news?

Before the tree is even out of their sight, Hawkeye vomits up the second dose of meds, plus the water. He offers to try again, desperate to feel better, or maybe just to ease BJ’s mind, but that's not a good idea. It's better to hold down a little water than throw up a bunch of it. Either way, he's going to end up wildly dehydrated by the end of this. Too many concerns are coming at him too fast to rank them in order of importance, but dehydration is certainly in the top three. Below being captured or killed by enemy soldiers, but a close second. All Hawkeye can do is placate him with small sips and the promise to take a few more later. 

God, it's painful. All of it. His foot, but that's background noise by now. His head, from the heat and the dehydration. He's drinking less, deluding himself that something will change and Hawkeye will find it in him to drink the whole flask. If that happens, he would hate to have drank the whole thing. Most of all, his heart hurts. The sound of heavy breathing, labored and uneven, right in his ear, is a constant reminder of just how hard he's pushing him. 

BJ has never been one to rely on others. When Peg got a job, it had sent him into a frenzy. She's the mother of his child, for God's sake, and he's halfway around the world. The last thing she should be doing is burning the candle at the other end. The promise he'd made to her when they'd gotten married had been the easiest he'd ever made. For better or for worse. If, in the worst of times, he can roll over in bed in the morning and see her face, how hard could it be to get up? For richer, or for poorer. Well, even when he was in med school and they were eating a dinner she'd managed to scrounge up out of the canned goods in their pantry, even when they were both students and had no income between them and had to save up to see a movie at the theater, even when he'd worked doubles for a month to save up to buy her a ring:  the longer he held her, the richer he felt. In sickness and in health. When she was so nauseous from morning sickness that she couldn't even speak, she reached for him, and she didn't have to reach far, because he was already reaching back. All that had felt easy, natural. The guidelines had been laid out for him. He never had to wonder, not with Peg. Never with Peg. 

Hawkeye stops, moans, breaking him from his thoughts. 

"What is it?" BJ asks, hands hovering, waiting to figure out what to soothe. "What's wrong?"

“Just whining,” he says.

BJ can't tell how he's supposed to take that. He's not whining, not in the slightest, but is he supposed to treat him as if he is? Chastise him and move on? It's what Charles would do. Demand transparency? Colonel Potter would. Force him to rest, even if they don't have time? He can practically hear Radar's soft voice coaxing him to shut his eyes. 

“Don’t even know where we’re going.” 

"Hawk, you're the legs of this operation," he decides upon. "We go where you lead. You decide what's best." 

It might be the wrong move. BJ is trying to shoulder the weight of the world right now, and in trying to give Hawkeye a little power, he might be making him feel the same pressure. 

"What's best," he repeats incredulously. He locks eyes with BJ. "What's best?"

For better and for worse. For richer or for poorer. In sickness and in health. Well, this is the worst of all three. 

"I don't know," he admits. "Couldn't have less of a clue." 

"Then, point." 

BJ thinks. It's not thinking, really: it's guessing. Taking a shot in the dark. Hoping for a stroke of luck. So he looks at Hawkeye's feet and gestures in the direction they're facing. 

"That way." 

Hawkeye nods. Because his hands are occupied, BJ uses his sleeve to wipe the sweat from his brow, careful not to linger long enough to take in the heat. It will only spike his anxiety, and he already knows how bad this is. He doesn’t need to spiral.

And they take off. 

As much as he needs to get Hawkeye out of the day's intense sun, the dark of the night presents even more of a problem. They've already seen snakes, already been fired at by enemy soldiers. They're hopelessly lost. Daylight is their only defense against a new set of horrors they haven't yet prepared for, and they're losing it quickly.

For the next half hour, Hawkeye's complaints escalate. At first, it's just the pain in his head and his body, but soon, the nausea becomes unbearable, causing him to stop twice more to dry heave into the bushes. BJ can do nothing but rub his back and tell him it's okay. It's not long after that that dizziness begins to become a concern. Though he nods when BJ asks if he can go on, they both know he's hitting his limit. Running out of steam. It's amazing he's lasted this long. 

So, it's no surprise when he collapses proper. Without a word, he stumbles forward, this time not even catching himself on his hands and knees. He hits the ground hard, both of them do, but BJ at least manages to catch himself on his hands and knees. Hawkeye, on the other hand, lands face-first in the dirt, silent and still. 

"Hawkeye!" BJ cries, turning him onto his back and patting his cheek. Terrified, he places his ear to his chest--he's breathing, if fast and labored--and two fingers to his neck--pulse, but it's rapid and bounding. Walking side by side, he hasn't been able to get a good glance at him in a while, and he looks so bad it's shocking even knowing how sick he is. Pallor and a harsh flush were to be expected, but even his lips are pale. The sun has burned his cheeks and nose so badly that he's worried about adding sun poisoning to the mix. Even his eyes are puffy with exhaustion and illness. Perhaps worst of all, his forehead is dry when he pushes away the hair that's plastered there. 

"Come on, Hawk. You can't sleep just yet." 

But he's not sleeping. He's knocked out, and it's not going to get better until they can treat his illness. God, what's he going to do if he can't wake him?

Without a distraction, anxiety begins to creep in. It presses on his chest, tightening an invisible band that keeps him from taking a deep breath. Again, he presses his fingers to Hawkeye's pulse, just to remind himself he has one. 

As he waits, he scans the horizon, hoping against hope to see something that might give him an idea, or at least a chance. He's just about to give up when he sees it, so occluded by brush that he almost misses it--a house. It's some ways in the distance, but not so far that two healthy men shouldn't be able to reach it with ease. 

If only they had one.

He pours some of the water from their flask onto his own sleeve and dabs it against Hawkeye's face and the back of his neck, hoping that the sensation will be enough to rouse him. Eventually, it works, his head rolling to one side as he opens his eyes. BJ puts a hand to his chest to keep him from trying to sit up too early. 

"Ow," he says. Now, on top of everything that already hurt, his chin is bruised and bleeding. With his damp sleeve, he gently wipes away the blood, wincing when Hawkeye does.

"I know, I know. Take it easy. Remember where you are?"

"Hell," he replies. BJ smiles slightly. 

"Close enough. How'd we get here?"

"Abandoned hope and entered."

"Don't abandon anything just yet. It's still early. Not even dark, see?" BJ squeezes his hand. The scrapes on his own palm sting. "Look over there. Do you see what I see?"

He sits up and looks, squinting against the setting sun. A long beat passes while his eyes scan for it, but when he sees it, he doesn't react the way BJ had hoped. Instead of relief, he collapses back against the dirt with a look of dismay on his face. 

"It's so far, Beej," he nearly whines. 

"Nothing compared to how far you've come already," he points out. "And there might be someone there who can help us." 

"Everything's spinning. I'm gonna faint if I stand up." 

"We can rest here for a while, but we have to get there by sundown." Hawkeye throws an arm over his eyes. 

"I can't."

Yes," he argues, "you can."

"How?"

BJ thinks. How, indeed?

"You're going to tell a joke."

For a long moment, Hawkeye doesn't say anything at all. 

"A joke?"

"Yes. What, are you out?"

"I don't see how that’s going to help."

"I've known you a long time, and I know you well. You've pulled off more impossible things than anyone I've ever met, and you know how? You make it a joke." 

At that, Hawkeye barks out a harsh laugh. 

"Right," he agrees. "Yeah, okay. But my head's killing me." 

"I know, buddy. Take your time. You want a little water?" He nods, taking the flask and sipping. "There you go. Think you could sit up?"

"Every muscle in my body hurts. Help me up." 

"Of course." Slowly, carefully, BJ eases him upright, holding him steady while he gets his bearings. "That okay?"

"I've never been so tired in my life."

"I'm so sorry. What can I do?"

"I've got a knock-knock joke for you, but I'm exhausted. You're going to have to start it."

"Okay," he says. "Knock knock."

"Who's there?" They both sit there in silence, BJ waiting for the punch line and Hawkeye waiting for... well, he's not sure what, yet. The silence is startling, skyrocketing his heart rate. He's looking right at him, but not saying anything further.

"Hawk? Who's there?"

"How should I know? You're the one knocking." 

BJ stares. 

"That's it?"

"Mhm."

He smiles. Not because it's funny, but because it's so, so not. Then, he laughs. That laugh starts Hawkeye laughing, and soon, they're both bent forward, leaning against one another in tears. 

"That's your joke?" 

"I didn't say I was touring with it," he giggles. "If you wanted something good, you should have brought props."

"I'll try to think ahead next time." He can't resist pressing his mostly-dry sleeve to Hawkeye's chin to remove the residual dirt and blood, but really, all it does it knock loose the clot that's trying to form. A gentle touch isn't going to be enough to help him, this time. "Think you could stand?"

"Gotta try." BJ does most of the lifting, because that much he can do, but that first step they take toward the house is all Hawk. Sheer, pure determination, desperation, inspiration. All he has is a goal to hit and a direction to walk in. 

And someone to walk for.

By the time they reach the house, the sun has set. The last little bit had been navigated in the dark. If BJ had taken his eyes off of it, they mightn't have found the place, but while Hawkeye stared down at his own feet to ensure they didn't trip, BJ kept his focus straight ahead. 

"Hello?" BJ calls as they near the open doorway. To his dismay, no one answers. "Anyone here?"

"It's empty, Beej." 

Well, it's not idea, but better than finding out that any angry, trigger-happy soldiers are using it as some kind of meeting point. Hawkeye walks them through the doorway and helps BJ ease into a wooden chair sitting at a table. It's sad, this kind of thing. This house was built for a family. There are four chairs. Two parents, probably, and two children should be living here. Maybe even a pet or two. Instead, it's abandoned, fled and totally unlivable because of the war. Maybe, some day, when this is all over, someone will make it a home again. 

For now, it's comfortable enough to stay until rescue finds them, which will hopefully be sooner rather than later. 

It's cooler in here than it had been out there. To BJ, that’s welcome, but Hawkeye has been shivering on and off, and to BJ's dread, it's picked up again. 

"Give me your jacket," Hawkeye demands, kneeling beside his feet. 

"You can’t bundle up. Your fever's too high." 

"It's not for me. Take off your pants."

"Is that for you?"

"I need to," he trails off for a moment, overshooting reaching for their emergency pack and losing his balance, "to check your leg."

"Come on, Hawk. You've done enough and earned a rest. I know you're tired. Just lie down."

"Gotta see the damage." He's insistent no matter how many times BJ tries to tell him it's okay, so he gives up and obeys. Better to let him exert himself for a few minutes now than get him all worked up trying to hold him down. While he shrugs out of his jacket, Hawkeye cuts open his pant let with the pocket knife from the bag, then uses it to shred a strip off his jacket. 

Honestly, it's worse than he'd anticipated. Though he's been pretty sure of a break since he woke up, he hadn't really felt the cuts around it, some of which are pretty deep, one in particular that's actually still bleeding a little. It makes him wonder if Hawkeye took similar damage, but he's not obviously bleeding from anywhere, and that's definitely not going to be their biggest concern. 

Hawkeye pours antiseptic onto the strip of fabric and dabs it on the worst of the cuts, deliriously whispering apologies as he does so. It kills him to know he feels guilty about hurting him at a time like this.

"Please, Hawkeye, just lie back. I can do this. You don't need to worry." 

He doesn't stop until the wound is clean and bandaged, even though, by the time he finishes, his hands are heavy and clumsy. It's amazing he's managed to be so delicate with almost no coordination and with his eyes half closed. Finally, he can hardly hold his head up any longer, and BJ helps him lie flat. 

"Beej," he mumbles, semi-conscious. 

"Yeah?"

"I don't think this is the flu."

He chuckles bitterly. 

"Me, neither." Since he's had hours of silence with which to get carried away in thought, he's been rolling the differential diagnoses around in his mind all day. Myalgia, nausea, vomiting, severe fatigue, teeth-chattering chills, and a blazing fever, all far too extreme to be attributed to a run of the mill virus.

"Think it's something tropical. Malaria?"

"It's on my short list."

"Hm." He's forcing his eyes open. "Never felt this bad in my life."

For someone whose entire job is to care for sick people, BJ rarely feels this helpless in the face of someone else's misery. But what can he do? What do they have? Fever reducers he can't take, water he can't keep down, and a hard floor to rest upon? What the hell good does any of that do him?

"Just close your eyes."

"You gonna sleep, too?" 

"Not much else to do." 

Seemingly satisfied with that answer, Hawkeye finally allows himself to slip into the unconsciousness he's been fighting all day.