Work Text:
Hawkeye woke up to the faint sound of muffled sniffling—someone crying, and trying to hide it. “Frank,” he muttered into his pillow, “if you don’t shut up, I’m going to use your nostril hairs for jump rope.”
“Sorry,” BJ said—not Frank, which meant BJ was crying, which was—what? In the weeks he’d been in Korea, BJ hadn’t cried once, not even when he’d lost his first boy on the operating table.
Hawkeye opened his eyes, and shit, no wonder—the still, which they’d topped off last night, was pretty much empty. He propped himself up, warily eyeing BJ, who was slumped on the ground with an empty martini glass beside him and the nearly-empty specimen glass in his hands. “You okay there, pal?”
“I lost him,” BJ said, peering woefully at Hawkeye with red-rimmed eyes.
Hawkeye shot upright, his mind jumping into overdrive as he tried to recall all the patients who’d been in more critical condition. Martinez? LaRusso? Not Cohen, he’d been Hawkeye’s patient, not BJ’s, someone would have called him, in that case. “What—who?”
“Blue Velvet,” BJ said, though, and Hawkeye’s thoughts ground to a halt.
“Blue Velvet,” Hawkeye repeated. “Your racing cockroach. That Blue Velvet.”
BJ miserably held up the little box which, until recently, had contained that champion of champions. “I went to feed him and he was—gone.” BJ’s voice cracked on a sob, hastily stifled. “Sorry—sorry, Hawk. Go back to sleep.”
Like hell was Hawkeye going back to sleep now, when his bunkie was miserable, even if it was some ungodly hour of the morning. Well, maybe if it was Frank. But not BJ.
“Hey,” Hawkeye said, crossing the floor to sit beside him and tossing a pair of someone’s dirty underwear away with a grimace. He put a hand on BJ’s shoulder, squeezing gently. “He was a—a really great cockroach.”
BJ sniffled and rubbed his nose with the back of his hand. “He was. We won a lot of races.”
“I’m sure he’s living his best cockroach life right now. Living the life of a star. Booze, women, money, everything a cockroach would ask for, if it could,” Hawkeye said.
BJ took another gulp from the specimen vial and hiccuped. “He got hurt in the last race.”
“He did?” Hawkeye asked, as he pried the remaining gin away—not that there was much of it left.
BJ nodded miserably. “He hurt his leg. He was limping. What kind of doctor am I, if I can’t even cure a cockroach?”
Hawkeye thought that it was very admirable that he didn’t burst out laughing right then and there at the image of BJ bent over an operating table with tiny sutures, stitching up a cockroach. “Come on, Beej, up you get,” he said, standing and tugging BJ up—onto the cot, if not onto his feet. “Get some sleep. We can look for Blue Velvet in the morning. When it’s really morning, not whatever you want to call this.”
“Don’t bother,” BJ said, flopping onto his cot and rolling away, his back to Hawkeye. “It’s just a dumb cockroach, anyways. Who cares?”
Except that BJ clearly cared. Really, they’d do any number of things to keep themselves entertained out here, but BJ had been oddly invested in the cockroach races from the very morning he’d picked up a boot, looked inside, and said, “Hawkeye, there’s a cockroach in my shoe.”
“Oh, you lucky pup!” Radar had immediately declared, craning his neck to see. “Wow, he’s a really big one, isn’t he?”
“Is this, ah, some superstition I don’t know about?” BJ had said. “Waking up to a cockroach in your shoe?”
“Sure, it’s a good sign that means you don’t have to spend an hour trying to catch one yourself,” Hawkeye had said, tossing BJ a box. “Here, put him in that. You can take him to the races tonight.”
BJ had carefully tipped the cockroach into the box, and that night they’d gone to Rosie’s for the races and a few drinks.
“What’s the roach’s name?” Zale had asked, as he collected their entry fee.
“Uh,” Hawkeye had said, because he’d forgotten to tell BJ to come up with a name, but he had one right on the tip of his tongue, a really good one, he just needed a second—
“Blue Velvet,” BJ had said, before Hawkeye could say anything at all.
“Alright, go stand over there—and no early releases, or you’re out!” Zale warned.
There hadn’t been any need for that, though. Blue Velvet had swept the competition, and the two of them, whooping, had collected their winnings and drunk themselves silly, singing Blue Velvet’s praises and dropping pretzel crumbs into the box into the wee hours of the morning.
“Why Blue Velvet?” Hawkeye had asked as they stumbled home, Blue Velvet’s box securely tucked into BJ’s pocket.
“I love that song. It was the last song Peg and I danced to before I left,” BJ had said, holding up his hands and swaying as if he were dancing with some invisible person. “She wore blue velvet, bluer than velvet was the night…”
“Softer than satin was the light, from the stars,” Hawkeye had joined in, stepping into BJ’s arms, and together they’d waltzed into the Swamp, turning in slow circles until they crashed into the furnace and Frank woke up shouting.
After that, BJ had been a dedicated caretaker of his champion racer. Hawkeye, who’d gone through more than a few racing cockroaches in his time, was always losing them or forgetting to feed them. But BJ had fed Blue Velvet three times a day, taken him for walks, and even sent him on little cockroach dates. A more spoiled cockroach had never existed. Hawkeye had thought it was more out of boredom than anything else, since the 4077th wasn’t exactly a happening place except when they had wounded in the compound, but it looked like BJ had actually gotten attached to the little guy.
Or he’d just been drunk. Hawkeye had cried over some pretty stupid stuff while drunk, in his time; a missing cockroach, in the grand scheme of things, wasn’t so odd. And in the light of day, BJ might just laugh over the way he’d gotten so worked up over it.
Except, when Hawkeye rolled out of bed and went to prod at him, saying, “Up and at ‘em, Sleeping Beauty, unless you want the toast to be even more stale than it already is. You’d think after so many wars, they’d figure out how to make a breakfast that doesn’t fight back,” BJ just wrapped his arms around his pillow and curled up into a miserable ball under the thin army blanket.
“Don’t even talk to me about breakfast,” he groused.
“Right, I forgot, you had your liquid breakfast a few hours ago,” Hawkeye said. “You want to look for Blue Velvet?”
“I already said it doesn’t matter. Just forget about it already,” BJ snapped, in the manner of someone to whom it did, in fact, matter.
“Really, Beej, it’s no big deal. We can take a look around. He’s probably hiding under your bed somewhere,” Hawkeye said. “Or maybe he’s snuggling up with Frank, they’ve got plenty in common, after all.”
“It’s a cockroach, Hawk. Now leave me alone before I throw up in your boots,” BJ said, before pulling his pillow over his head in a way that put a definitive end to the conversation.
But Hawkeye wasn’t going to let him get away with hiding his head in the sand and ignoring this, oh, no. He was going to find Blue Velvet if it was the last thing he did.
He started in the immediate vicinity of BJ’s cot, the scene of the crime, if you would. The box was indeed still empty of cockroach, and so was BJ’s trunk, although Hawkeye did find three pairs of his socks which had gone missing. There weren’t even any cockroaches hiding under the bed. Hawkeye searched every little nook and cranny of his corner, next, even going so far as to clear off his shelves and search behind the various knicknacks, but nothing. The empty corner was a bust, too, and Frank probably scared off any cockroaches with his sheer presence.
Except, there, hiding in the corner under Frank’s cot—
Hawkeye dove for it, hands outstretched to grab it. He kept his hands carefully cupped around the cockroach as he wriggled back out. “I got him!”
“What? Where?” BJ said, practically flinging himself off the cot, barely catching himself on the stovepipe in his haste to cross the tent.
“I told you he was cuddling up with Frank,” Hawkeye said, grinning as he showed the cockroach cupped in his hands to BJ.
BJ frowned, though, as he peered down at it. “That’s not Blue Velvet.”
“What? It’s not?” Hawkeye said.
“He’s too small,” BJ said. “And I told you, Blue Velvet was injured! He had a limp!”
“Oh, right.” Hawkeye squinted down at the roach. He’d grant that it didn’t look injured, but it looked pretty close to Blue Velvet to him—and pretty fast, too, as it scampered right out of his hands and vanished under the tent wall in a moment of boldness. “Sorry, Beej. I really thought it was him.”
“It’s fine,” BJ huffed, even as he threw himself back down on his bed, burying his face in his pillow. It clearly wasn’t fine, whatever BJ wanted to say.
They might not have known each other for long—although, in Korea, weeks felt more like years—but Hawkeye knew already that BJ was one of those guys who liked to bury how he was really feeling. The gin had brought it out of him last night, but now it was carefully tucked away again under the veneer of being tired and hungover. Even if he was upset about losing Blue Velvet, getting him to actually say so now would be like pulling teeth. The only cure was to find the damn thing—and, so far, no dice.
Hawkeye hadn’t looked everywhere, though.
He hunted through the Swamp for any sign of the cockroach, from crawling under the cots to digging through all of their trunks and bags to peering into the stove. Nothing, nothing, nothing.
The door opened, and Frank let out a loud squawk. “Pierce! What are you doing?”
Hawkeye looked around. The Swamp had been turned pretty much upside-down, with the exception of BJ in his cot, the floor littered with their belongings. “What does it look like, Frank? I read this month’s copy of Better Homes and Gardens and got inspired to redecorate. I think a little more army drab would really spruce up the place.”
“Well, stop!” Frank said.
“Okay, if that’s what you want. You can put everything back where it belongs. So long, Frank,” Hawkeye said, leaving Frank to shout complaints as he tromped over the mess to the door.
Okay, so maybe he wasn’t going to find Blue Velvet, but that wasn’t going to stop him. Let it not be said that Hawkeye Pierce was a quitter. He was just going to switch to Plan B.
He was going to find BJ the best damn racing cockroach in Korea.
Hawkeye shaded his eyes as he stepped outside. It was a good day; the weather was bright and sunny and warm, and any wounded were set to be routed to the 8063rd or the 8044th, and all around him he could see people going about their merry ways, enjoying their rare day off. Nurses arm-in-arm with enlisted men, ducking off to some secret corner. A group of guys playing baseball around the swamp. A gaggle of nurses glancing his way and giggling in a way that meant they might be amenable to passing this beautiful day in his company.
And Hawkeye was going to spend it hunting cockroaches. Not just any cockroach, either: the cockroach. A champion to rival Blue Velvet. And for that, Hawkeye was going to need backup.
“Right here, Hawkeye.”
“Gah!” Hawkeye jumped. “Radar, don’t do that! Or I’m going to put a bell on you before you give me a heart attack.”
“Sorry, only I thought you needed my help for something, that's all,” Radar said.
“You’re right. I do. I need your help to find a cockroach. The king of cockroaches. The alpha and the omega of cockroaches,” Hawkeye said. “You know if Zale still has any of Blue Velvet’s offspring?”
“Oh, uh, no, I think he sold the last of ‘em already,” Radar said. “They’re pretty popular, you know, even if they're still growing.”
“Of course, can’t miss out on a pedigree racing roach,” Hawkeye said—he’d have to make sure Zale coughed up their share of the profits, but that could wait. He needed to track down a prize cockroach.
“I think there’s some in the kitchen,” Radar offered.
“Of course there are, how else would the army make sure we were getting all our protein? Lead on, Macduff,” Hawkeye said, clapping him on the shoulder.
The cooks were at work cleaning up the remains of their gristly work, which somehow managed to be even more disgusting than breakfast itself. Hawkeye was on a mission, though; he threw himself down on the floor, headless of their shouted protests.
“We’re trying to clean up for lunch, here!”
“You clean?” Hawkeye said, squinting under the stove. “Since when? Radar, uh, search the pantry. Is it still called a pantry, or did the army ruin that for us, too? Well, wherever a cockroach might make itself at home. Someone give me something long and pointy. I’m commandeering this kitchen for the discovery of new cockroach talent.”
“What, again?” one of them groused, even as someone else handed Hawkeye a wooden spoon to stick under the stove.
He shouted in triumph as a whole hoard of cockroaches scattered from the depths. “Quick, grab them, grab them!”
The cook lunged fruitlessly at a cockroach that skittered right under his fingers. “That’s the one!” Hawkeye shouted. “Radar!”
Radar threw himself on the ground. “I got him, I got him!”
The kitchen erupted into cheers, only to fall silent as the door slammed open.
“What the hell is going on here?” Margaret demanded. “Corporal, get off the floor.”
“Oh, let him stay down there, Margaret. It makes him feel taller when he stands up again,” Hawkeye said.
“Hey!” Radar protested, getting to his feet with the cockroach carefully held in his hands.
Margaret’s eyes zeroed in on his hands. “What is that?”
“A cockroach. We’re looking for a new racing roach for BJ,” Hawkeye said.
“That’s disgusting,” Margaret said, frowning at him. “Why, what happened to Blue Velvet?”
“Gone with the wind,” Hawkeye said. “He skipped town, vamoosed, gave us the slip.”
“He means he’s missing,” Radar piped up.
“I know what he means,” Margaret huffed. “Well?”
“We’ve got one, but I don’t know,” Hawkeye said, frowning at Radar’s cupped hands. “What do you think, Radar?”
“I dunno. He’s kinda skinny,” Radar said, frowning into his hands. “And Blue Velvet was bigger.”
“There’s one in my tent. If you can catch it, you can keep it,” Margaret said.
“Ah, too cheap to hire an exterminator, I see,” Hawkeye said. “Never fear, Pierce and O’Reilly, roach wranglers, are on the scene. Someone give me an empty jar for BJ’s new friend.”
Armed with a handful of jars and one cockroach, they trooped behind Margaret to her tent, like an odd little parade.
“And no funny business,” Margaret said, as she held the door open. “Get the roach and get out. I’ll have my eye on you the whole time.”
“I’ll have one on you and one on the roach,” Hawkeye said, earning himself a sharp glare from Margaret.
“Last I saw it, it was under the closet,” was all she said, though, as she stepped back with her hands on her hips.
“A popular hiding place for all your paramours, of course,” Hawkeye said, getting down on his hands and knees to peer underneath. “Hand me—agh!”
He toppled backwards as something flew at his face, crashing into Margaret’s table.
“Oh, boy, it’s a big one!” Radar yelled. “I got it, I got it—oh, shoot, I don’t got it—”
“Can’t you do anything!” Margaret shrieked. “Give me that jar, Corporal!”
Margaret let out a mighty war cry; Hawkeye twisted around to see her neatly snatch up the cockroach and slam down the lid before it could escape again. It really was a big one—even bigger than Blue Velvet.
“Wow,” Radar said.
Hawkeye applauded. “Excellent catch, Margaret. If this whole nursing thing doesn’t work out, you can join our gig. Pierce, O’Reilly, and Houlihan, roach wranglers for hire.”
“I’d rather eat a roach,” Margaret said flatly. “Here, take the damn thing and get it out of here.”
“Thank you, Margaret—whoops!” Hawkeye said, pretending to fumble the jar.
“Out, Pierce!” Margaret shouted, snatching up a pillow from her cot and wielding it threateningly.
He and Radar scrambled out before Margaret could really unleash her rage on them. “You think these guys are good enough?” Radar asked, holding up the jars to watch the cockroaches scuttle around.
“I don’t know,” Hawkeye said. “Maybe we should ask the good Father to pray for one for us.”
“Oh, I don’t think he can because it’s Sunday and all, and Colonel Potter’s at the Methodist service,” Radar said.
“Oh, is it Sunday?” Hawkeye asked.
“I think so,” Radar said.
“They all start to blur together,” Hawkeye said. “I thought yesterday was Sunday.”
“No, yesterday was Friday, that’s why we watched a movie,” Radar said.
“Right, we watched a movie, so it must have been Friday, and there's services today, so today must be Sunday,” Hawkeye agreed. “Well, let’s not get between the Father and his Father. You been keeping any cockroaches in your office, Radar?”
“Only Cathy, and you can’t have her,” Radar said. “We’ve been training real hard for tonight’s race.”
“I wouldn’t dream of separating you,” Hawkeye said. “It’s one of the few chances you’ll have to be with a woman your size.”
“That’s not funny!” Radar snapped.
“You’re a giant among men in my heart,” Hawkeye said, patting his shoulder. “Let’s see. Roaches, roaches…”
“I saw one in the latrine this morning,” Radar offered.
The latrine.
“The places I’ll go for you, BJ,” Hawkeye sighed. “Well, if we must. Onward, men!”
He led them in a goofy march towards the latrine. “Knock-knock,” he said, rapping against the door, stepping in when he got no response. Radar shuffled in behind him and peeked through the National Geographic.
“Oh, how quickly the young are led astray,” Hawkeye said, as he crouched down. Ugh. “Radar, where’d you see this thing?”
“In the corner,” Radar said distantly. “Whoa.”
Hawkeye peered into the dark corners of the latrine until he spotted the faintest twitch of an antenna. “Yeah, I see it. Get that jar ready.”
Hawkeye lunched for the cockroach, snatching it up and dumping it in the jar Radar held out. He grimaced and wiped his hands on his pants as soon as the bug was safely trapped. “And now, to pre-op. I feel a sudden urge to scrub up.”
Radar followed him, arms full of the jars, as Hawkeye went to wash his hands. He peered at each jar in turn, watching as the roaches skittered around in circles, unaware that very soon, one of them was going to be a champion. “Which one are you gonna give him? ‘Cause I guess you could give him all of them only he can only race one, so giving him all three wouldn’t really matter.”
“The answer is simple, my dear Watson,” Hawkeye said. “We’ll have to put them through their paces. To Rosie’s!”
The roach races were held in the back room of Rosie’s; it was already set up for tonight, Zale eyeing them skeptically as they entered, as if he thought they somehow planned to rig the event in their favor. “Hey, no funny business.”
“We’re testing out new roaches for Beej,” Hawkeye said, crouching down at the start of the track. “Come on, let’s see what they’re made of.”
They lined up the three jars, one with the skinny roach from the kitchen, the other with the big roach from Margaret’s tent, the last with the little roach with the long antennae from the latrine. “Ready,” Hawkeye said, pinning two jars in place between his legs and unscrewing the lids. He kept the lid in place, though, until he was sure that Radar had unscrewed the third jar. “On three. One, two, three!”
They whipped the lids away from the jars, and the roaches took off, racing down the narrow confines of the track. Hawkeye darted around to the other end, ready to catch the winner. The skinny one, he thought, at first, was surprisingly fast—but no, the one with the long antennae was pulling ahead, skittering down the track.
Hawkeye caught it with a whoop as it burst across the finish line. “We have a winner!”
“Wow, he’s fast!” Radar said. “Maybe even as fast as Blue Velvet!”
“Though he be but little, he is fierce,” Hawkeye said. “You two have a lot in common—I kid, I kid. Here, take one of the runners-up, give Cathy a new cockroach boyfriend. Or girlfriend. I can’t really tell, to be honest. Zale, I’ll be seeing you tonight.”
He left Radar in the dust, running across the road without even looking to see if the coast was clear and nearly bowling over a baseball player in his haste. He barged into the tent, the door slamming open. BJ was there, lounging on his cot listlessly, and Hawkeye threw himself towards him.
“Beej!” Hawkeye shouted, falling to his knees beside BJ’s cot. BJ twisted to look at him, his eyebrows climbing up his forehead. “Look!”
BJ nearly went cross-eyed trying to look at the jar. “That’s not—”
“No, it’s not, I know,” Hawkeye said rapidly. “I couldn’t find Blue Velvet. But Radar and I scoured camp and found a few contenders for the throne, and we tested them out, and this little guy’s pretty quick! Maybe as fast as Blue Velvet, Radar thinks.”
His heart hammered in his chest as he held up the jar like an offering. Maybe he should’ve grabbed a few more roaches, or run a few more trials, or, shit, maybe he should’ve brought all three back and let BJ take his pick—or maybe BJ didn’t want a new roach, didn’t want a replacement for Blue Velvet—
“I mean, I know he’s no Blue Velvet,” Hawkeye said quickly. “I’m not trying to replace him. But I thought, you know, you never miss a race, it’d be a shame to start now, and I thought it might cheer you up a little—”
BJ ducked his head, rubbing his hand over his mouth, but Hawkeye saw the smile hidden behind it. “So you got me a new cockroach?”
“Hey, I wasn’t going to let you miss out on tonight’s race,” Hawkeye said. “What do you think?”
BJ reached out to take the jar at last, turning it this way and that as he peered at the roach. “He’s kinda cute.”
“You like him?” Hawkeye asked.
“Yeah. Yeah, I like him,” BJ said.
“What are you going to name him?” Hawkeye asked.
“Quicksilver,” BJ said.
“Quicksilver?” Hawkeye echoed. “Mercury? Interesting choice—but were you thinking of the god, or the element?”
“Neither,” BJ said. “You’re as hard to hold as quicksilver, when you kiss and run away…”
“I dream you're mine and then as quick as quicksilver, all my dreams are led astray,” Hawkeye finished. “Bing Crosby.”
“And the Andrews Sisters,” BJ said.
“And their horse,” Hawkeye said.
“Speaking of horses,” BJ said, holding up the box. “Wanna see what this little guy is made of?”
“Well, you know what they say,” Hawkeye said. “Hi-yo Quicksilver, away!”
They spent the afternoon building a makeshift racecourse and putting BJ’s new roach through its paces. He was a fast little guy—and, what was more, BJ was pleased as punch, grinning from ear to ear as he watched him run around. Hawkeye couldn’t help but smile too, watching him.
When night fell, they made their way back to Rosie’s. The usual crowd had gathered for the races, and Zale was already collecting the entry fees while Klinger collected bets from the crowd.
“One entry here,” BJ said, handing over a quarter. “A new contender: Quicksilver.”
“We’ll see how quick he is,” Zale said, eyeing the jar. “Alright, places, people!”
Hawkeye squeezed BJ’s arm as they made their way to the start of the race. “What do you think?”
“I think you picked out a real winner,” BJ said.
Hawkeye couldn’t help but watch him, as the races began. The intense anticipation, as Zale had them get ready. The way he groaned and clutched at his hair when their roach fell behind. The way he grabbed onto Hawkeye and shook him with delight when their roach darted across the finish line ahead of the pack.
In the end, they won a solid seven out of ten races—not as many as Blue Velvet, who had once swept the lot, but enough to win them the majority of the prize money. They celebrated with a round of drinks and pretzel crumbs for Quicksilver, who BJ proudly showed off to anyone who stopped by their table.
They only left when they had drunk all their winnings away, and stumbled back to the Swamp arm-in-arm to topple into their cots. The tent was blissfully quiet with Frank gone—in post-op, with Margaret, Hawkeye didn’t particularly care as long as he was somewhere else—and Hawkeye sank onto his cot with a long sigh, his eyes slipping closed.
“Hawk. Hawk, are you awake?”
“Hm?” Hawkeye opened his eyes just enough to look across the tent.
BJ had turned towards him, his eyes bright in the dim light of the tent. “Thanks, Hawk.”
“Hey, no need to thank me. It’s not like I had anything better to do,” Hawkeye said.
“You mean you wouldn’t have rather been canoodling with some nurse? Able and Baker both came around looking for you,” BJ said.
“Oh, well now I regret it,” Hawkeye said.
BJ huffed out a soft laugh. “But really. I know it’s—it’s just a silly cockroach, but you really pulled out all the stops for me. So thanks, Hawk. I really—thanks. That’s all.”
“It meant a lot to you. You don’t need to deny it,” Hawkeye said.
BJ’s huff, this time, was less amused. He rolled onto his back, arms tucked under his head. “It’s stupid.”
“Not to you. And if it’s not stupid to you, it’s not stupid to me, stupid,” Hawkeye said.
“Are you always this charming?” BJ sniped.
“Only to the guys I like the most,” Hawkeye shot back.
That got an honest laugh from BJ. He glanced over at Hawkeye, a slow grin spreading across his face, and Hawkeye made a show of fluttering his eyelashes at him. BJ laughed again, amused.
And, somehow, the sound made Hawkeye’s chest ache. It was just a joke, to him, nothing more than that. But for Hawkeye—
The thing was, he hadn’t known BJ very long. A matter of weeks, really. But the moment BJ had gone along with his Rudyard Kipling joke, the moment he’d made that little Coleman Hawkins crack, the moment he’d clutched onto Hawkeye’s hand as they drove over the Korean countryside, the moment he’d thrown himself into trying to help those boys when they were being shelled, the moment Hawkeye had held him as he’d been sick—all those little moments had built up into something monumental.
Funny, how a matter of hours could do more to really make you know someone than days, weeks, months, years. And now BJ had carved himself a little spot in Hawkeye’s heart, a spot that ached when he laughed at Hawkeye’s flirtations, because of course it could only be a joke, when he was happily married, when he had a little girl and a wife back at home, when Hawkeye was Hawkeye.
But even if it hurt, Hawkeye thought he’d do a hell of a lot to make BJ smile like that.