[mijmeraar] if it hurts, part 1 of 1, 13+
Jun. 11th, 2007 11:01 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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mash_slashTitle: if it hurts, it heals.
Pairing: BJ and Hawkeye [implied BJ/Hawkeye]
Rating: 13+ for mild language.
Summary: In the words of our beloved Colonel Potter: “If you ain’t where you are, you’re no place.”
AN: Sons and Bowlers coda. Hawkeye’s words to Charles, after hearing that his dad was in for surgery, were: “I don’t want anybody else in camp knowing about this.” This is dialogue heavy. Feedback=Love.
&^*
He’s asleep on his left side and awake on his right; sun fading to black on another blue day. Radar’s boots shuffle somewhere outside and Hawkeye calls, “I’m awake, I’m awake,” before there’s any grating hiss through the thin sheath of the tent. You got the duty.
BJ’s on his own cot, sipping gin, edges blurry to Hawkeye’s pillow pressed eyes. He sighs and smacks his lips and they just look at each other for a moment. Nothing special. All the conversations they haven’t had yet [lunch was terrible, the showers were cold, have you seen my favourite shirt?] shared anyway, without words. “I received some interesting news today.”
Hawkeye’s pulling on his boot, having trouble. “Impossible.”
“Oh yeah?”
“I’m only interested in waffles and freshly squeezed orange juice. Is it that?”
BJ refills his glass. “Nope.”
“Then it isn’t interesting.”
“How’s your father?”
On the other foot, and Hawkeye slips, nearly cuffs himself with his own rogue hand. “Dad? He’s fine. Why?”
“How’s his recovery going?”
Hawkeye sighs, pushing hair out of his face. Two weeks on, and he’d put it aside. Let it sit on the shelf with all his other little worries, ones that aren’t supposed to make sense next door to dead flesh. “You spoke to Charles.”
There’s a shift. BJ’s eyes are no longer conversing. They’re blaming. “Did I?”
“He told you about dad’s surgery.”
“Did he?”
“Beej-”
“What?” Immediate and harsh, like gunfire; Hawkeye’s never been shot, but he can imagine just fine. That voice, that way, it kills him. Only it doesn’t and he half wishes he were dead. BJ throws his head back, downs his drink; wiping his mouth with a sleeve. There it is, beside the trail of wet; his heart, in small, jagged pieces. “You’re sorry?”
Hawkeye pauses. “No.”
“You’re not sorry? You’re not sorry that Winchester knows and I don’t? That he was the one to tell me? You’re uncouth and defiled, Hunnicutt. You have two left feet and a smarmy grin, Hunnicutt. You’re only true friend in this rotten, stinking place doesn’t want you to know his father’s sick, Hunnicutt. Do you know how that makes me feel?”
BJ’s on his feet, now, pacing; so Hawkeye joins him. His laces are still untied, undone. “How it makes you feel? My father had surgery, delicate surgery, and I’m supposed to be thinking about how you feel?”
“You’re supposed to tell me.”
“Oh, oh.” There’s unhappy laughter, and not the concealed kind. Standing face to face, their fingers touching; the only way out is back and there’s no going back now. “I’m supposed to.”
“That’s right. Supposed to”
“Sorry Sir. I didn’t realise they were direct orders.”
Hawkeye has lives to save, and not his own; but when he turns to leave BJ’s holding him back, hand in the crook of his arm. His fingers are dug in too deep; they don’t say, please or how or why. They say, stay and tell me and I need. “Is this a game?”
“Isn’t it always?”
“What, did you think I wouldn’t find out? That I didn’t want to know? I didn’t care?”
Hawkeye sighs, and smiles, and it’s the same one he had painted on two years ago. It’s starting to chip and fade. “You, you, you. I never realised you had such a fascination with sheep.”
“Oh, no, no. You can’t use that on me.”
“Excuse me?”
“The quick fix,” BJ’s pouring another drink and it slops on his boots, splashing. It doesn’t stick, not like blood. Like Hawkeye. “Take two jokes and call me in the morning.”
“What would you prefer? Fists?”
“Answers.”
“What is this?” Hawkeye gestures between the two of them, a lazy hand. “A marriage? Am I your wife?”
BJ almost chokes on the gin, spitting out, “Don’t you-” with his face red, lips pursed.
“It’s just funny. I don’t remember signing any papers, nothing that says I have to reveal every last fact to Captain Hunnicutt; that Marvellous Medical Man concerned only with the protection of truthfulness and not with his own self serving ego.” Hawkeye wrenches his hand from BJ’s grip, still grinning without mirth. “Where is this declaration? Or better yet, where’s the photos? I’m sure I looked stunning in white.”
“You’re a son-of-a-bitch, you know that?”
BJ puts down the jug and reaches for his footlocker, throwing it on the bed carelessly. Hawkeye waits, stands by the door; they’ve been here before, at their worst, and he knows how BJ gets. He knows BJ.
Rustling through clothes, papers, three day old cake; BJ starts flinging envelopes over his shoulder. Letters, unwrapped parcels, birthday cards. One, two, three, so easy, like salt; over his left shoulder for luck. In somewhat of a defeatist way, BJ says, “Why don’t you read them? Go on.”
“Beej-”
“READ THEM!” He turns quickly, plucks one from Hawkeye’s cot, and pulls it out of its envelope. He throws it at Hawkeye, and just like Peg’s love, her warmth and support – it doesn’t quite make the distance. Ineffective. “Every last one, every single word that Peg ever told me, asked me or said about me.”
“What are you trying to prove?”
“This-” BJ sighs, slumping down on his cot, a groan and grind, accepting his weight. He shakes a letter around half-heartedly, while his other hand claws along his face. He looks tired. Sick and tired. “It’s part of you. You and me and us. Not here and there. Not now and then. Us. Forever. I know you get sick of hearing about it but I tell you anyway, because I want you to know. I’ve told you everything. Every single thing, down to the brand of toilet paper Peg started using last month. Don’t you get it?”
If BJ weren’t so busy, staring at the Swamp floor, perhaps Hawkeye’s eyes would say it plainly enough. Yes. There were plenty of things he didn’t get. Powdered egg. Saluting. Shiny medals pinned next to the heart. Hearts that have the mind to kill.
BJ. That’s always just made sense.
Hawkeye scuffles over, slumps down on the cot. Their knees bump, rekindle, and that’s a good start right there. “We’re pretty stupid, y’know?”
“Yeah?”
“Here we are fighting a war, and we’re both on the same side.” Hawkeye pushes hair from his face, scratches his shoulder. There’s plenty he could go on with, to distract him, but they’re here now. This is basically it. “That’s why I never told you. Because telling you, saying it … It was real.”
Their eyes meet again, fissures and sparks; had always been the same men, friends, just miscommunication. With seconds passed there’s plenty said in silence, it’s true, I trust you, I’m sorry.
“Why Charles?”
“Charles was never invited.”
“To arrive.” BJ concedes. “But you let him stay.”
“We found common ground. In Korea. Charles is Korea.” Hawkeye claps a hand to BJ’s knee. “I’m not taking him with me.”
Hawkeye hand curls right round, connects and bleeds; not war, Korea, or circumstance. Other things you might find once in your life, twice if your luck’s up [twice if there’s other four lettered L words concerned]. Home is where you rest your weary heart; home is whatever [whoever] you take with you. BJ’s hand covers Hawkeye’s and his fingers slip into the grooves; skin to skin and end to end – their endless. Later, Hawkeye will tell him everything. Every last stitch. For now, right now is enough.
Such a needless fight; they realise.
Such a beautiful reminder.
Pairing: BJ and Hawkeye [implied BJ/Hawkeye]
Rating: 13+ for mild language.
Summary: In the words of our beloved Colonel Potter: “If you ain’t where you are, you’re no place.”
AN: Sons and Bowlers coda. Hawkeye’s words to Charles, after hearing that his dad was in for surgery, were: “I don’t want anybody else in camp knowing about this.” This is dialogue heavy. Feedback=Love.
&^*
He’s asleep on his left side and awake on his right; sun fading to black on another blue day. Radar’s boots shuffle somewhere outside and Hawkeye calls, “I’m awake, I’m awake,” before there’s any grating hiss through the thin sheath of the tent. You got the duty.
BJ’s on his own cot, sipping gin, edges blurry to Hawkeye’s pillow pressed eyes. He sighs and smacks his lips and they just look at each other for a moment. Nothing special. All the conversations they haven’t had yet [lunch was terrible, the showers were cold, have you seen my favourite shirt?] shared anyway, without words. “I received some interesting news today.”
Hawkeye’s pulling on his boot, having trouble. “Impossible.”
“Oh yeah?”
“I’m only interested in waffles and freshly squeezed orange juice. Is it that?”
BJ refills his glass. “Nope.”
“Then it isn’t interesting.”
“How’s your father?”
On the other foot, and Hawkeye slips, nearly cuffs himself with his own rogue hand. “Dad? He’s fine. Why?”
“How’s his recovery going?”
Hawkeye sighs, pushing hair out of his face. Two weeks on, and he’d put it aside. Let it sit on the shelf with all his other little worries, ones that aren’t supposed to make sense next door to dead flesh. “You spoke to Charles.”
There’s a shift. BJ’s eyes are no longer conversing. They’re blaming. “Did I?”
“He told you about dad’s surgery.”
“Did he?”
“Beej-”
“What?” Immediate and harsh, like gunfire; Hawkeye’s never been shot, but he can imagine just fine. That voice, that way, it kills him. Only it doesn’t and he half wishes he were dead. BJ throws his head back, downs his drink; wiping his mouth with a sleeve. There it is, beside the trail of wet; his heart, in small, jagged pieces. “You’re sorry?”
Hawkeye pauses. “No.”
“You’re not sorry? You’re not sorry that Winchester knows and I don’t? That he was the one to tell me? You’re uncouth and defiled, Hunnicutt. You have two left feet and a smarmy grin, Hunnicutt. You’re only true friend in this rotten, stinking place doesn’t want you to know his father’s sick, Hunnicutt. Do you know how that makes me feel?”
BJ’s on his feet, now, pacing; so Hawkeye joins him. His laces are still untied, undone. “How it makes you feel? My father had surgery, delicate surgery, and I’m supposed to be thinking about how you feel?”
“You’re supposed to tell me.”
“Oh, oh.” There’s unhappy laughter, and not the concealed kind. Standing face to face, their fingers touching; the only way out is back and there’s no going back now. “I’m supposed to.”
“That’s right. Supposed to”
“Sorry Sir. I didn’t realise they were direct orders.”
Hawkeye has lives to save, and not his own; but when he turns to leave BJ’s holding him back, hand in the crook of his arm. His fingers are dug in too deep; they don’t say, please or how or why. They say, stay and tell me and I need. “Is this a game?”
“Isn’t it always?”
“What, did you think I wouldn’t find out? That I didn’t want to know? I didn’t care?”
Hawkeye sighs, and smiles, and it’s the same one he had painted on two years ago. It’s starting to chip and fade. “You, you, you. I never realised you had such a fascination with sheep.”
“Oh, no, no. You can’t use that on me.”
“Excuse me?”
“The quick fix,” BJ’s pouring another drink and it slops on his boots, splashing. It doesn’t stick, not like blood. Like Hawkeye. “Take two jokes and call me in the morning.”
“What would you prefer? Fists?”
“Answers.”
“What is this?” Hawkeye gestures between the two of them, a lazy hand. “A marriage? Am I your wife?”
BJ almost chokes on the gin, spitting out, “Don’t you-” with his face red, lips pursed.
“It’s just funny. I don’t remember signing any papers, nothing that says I have to reveal every last fact to Captain Hunnicutt; that Marvellous Medical Man concerned only with the protection of truthfulness and not with his own self serving ego.” Hawkeye wrenches his hand from BJ’s grip, still grinning without mirth. “Where is this declaration? Or better yet, where’s the photos? I’m sure I looked stunning in white.”
“You’re a son-of-a-bitch, you know that?”
BJ puts down the jug and reaches for his footlocker, throwing it on the bed carelessly. Hawkeye waits, stands by the door; they’ve been here before, at their worst, and he knows how BJ gets. He knows BJ.
Rustling through clothes, papers, three day old cake; BJ starts flinging envelopes over his shoulder. Letters, unwrapped parcels, birthday cards. One, two, three, so easy, like salt; over his left shoulder for luck. In somewhat of a defeatist way, BJ says, “Why don’t you read them? Go on.”
“Beej-”
“READ THEM!” He turns quickly, plucks one from Hawkeye’s cot, and pulls it out of its envelope. He throws it at Hawkeye, and just like Peg’s love, her warmth and support – it doesn’t quite make the distance. Ineffective. “Every last one, every single word that Peg ever told me, asked me or said about me.”
“What are you trying to prove?”
“This-” BJ sighs, slumping down on his cot, a groan and grind, accepting his weight. He shakes a letter around half-heartedly, while his other hand claws along his face. He looks tired. Sick and tired. “It’s part of you. You and me and us. Not here and there. Not now and then. Us. Forever. I know you get sick of hearing about it but I tell you anyway, because I want you to know. I’ve told you everything. Every single thing, down to the brand of toilet paper Peg started using last month. Don’t you get it?”
If BJ weren’t so busy, staring at the Swamp floor, perhaps Hawkeye’s eyes would say it plainly enough. Yes. There were plenty of things he didn’t get. Powdered egg. Saluting. Shiny medals pinned next to the heart. Hearts that have the mind to kill.
BJ. That’s always just made sense.
Hawkeye scuffles over, slumps down on the cot. Their knees bump, rekindle, and that’s a good start right there. “We’re pretty stupid, y’know?”
“Yeah?”
“Here we are fighting a war, and we’re both on the same side.” Hawkeye pushes hair from his face, scratches his shoulder. There’s plenty he could go on with, to distract him, but they’re here now. This is basically it. “That’s why I never told you. Because telling you, saying it … It was real.”
Their eyes meet again, fissures and sparks; had always been the same men, friends, just miscommunication. With seconds passed there’s plenty said in silence, it’s true, I trust you, I’m sorry.
“Why Charles?”
“Charles was never invited.”
“To arrive.” BJ concedes. “But you let him stay.”
“We found common ground. In Korea. Charles is Korea.” Hawkeye claps a hand to BJ’s knee. “I’m not taking him with me.”
Hawkeye hand curls right round, connects and bleeds; not war, Korea, or circumstance. Other things you might find once in your life, twice if your luck’s up [twice if there’s other four lettered L words concerned]. Home is where you rest your weary heart; home is whatever [whoever] you take with you. BJ’s hand covers Hawkeye’s and his fingers slip into the grooves; skin to skin and end to end – their endless. Later, Hawkeye will tell him everything. Every last stitch. For now, right now is enough.
Such a needless fight; they realise.
Such a beautiful reminder.
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