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Jul. 1st, 2005 10:45 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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mash_slashTitle: It Happened One Night
Author: La Reine Bleu
Rating: Soft-R
Pairing: Hawkeye/BJ
Disclaimer: Not mine, though if there were a way.... *sighs*
Dedication: For my own personal Hawkeye xw
Notes: My first venture into M*A*S*H writing - forgive the borrowed title, as the title fairy seems to be on vacation here at the moment, and any feedback is much appreciated :-)
It Happened One Night
It was a letter. A pale, run-of-the-mill letter, smelling of ink and Peg’s perfume. He doesn’t have nightmares; leaves those to Hawkeye. Only now it is he that wakes in a trembling sweat, calling for Christ only knows what into the dank, unforgiving night.
Whatever it is, there comes an answer. The mattress dips at his side, covers pushed back to admit a source of warmth greater than any they can provide.
“Hey, Beej – I told you to skip the meatloaf.”
Teasing, soothing, familiar. Comfort. Arms around him, a nose pressed into his hair. He tries to joke back, but something sticks in his throat, and it is something else entirely that comes out.
“Hawk…”
His voice sounds lost even to his own ears. The other man must hear it too, as the embrace tightens, hands rubbing his back. How long has it been since he has allowed himself to show weakness like this? Of any kind? It hardly matters; lips are against his forehead now, whispering words he can barely hear. And so he turns his head, just a fraction, upwards, to catch the soothing endearments.
That’s when it happens.
A kiss; unexpected, unplanned. Lips on his, warm and soft, chasing away the demons he didn’t know existed until that moment. And BJ doesn’t pull away because he right now Hawkeye is the only real thing in a world that has suddenly lost its reason.
Their lips meet again, even before he realises they have pulled away in the first place, longer this time, firmer, making BJ’s head swim and his heart pound. He clings to Hawkeye, letting it happen, even as he wonders where this has come from and whether he is surprised or merely accepting of the inevitable.
For how many times has BJ been the one to cross the small space between their bunks, how often has it been him offering words of comfort to a nightmare-shaken friend? How, he asks himself, how he has missed this? There is a need, a hunger, coming off Hawkeye in waves, as if it has been waiting there forever if only he would open his eyes and see. But he doesn’t seen, for it is dark, and so BJ feels instead, hands tangling in the unexpected softness of Hawkeye’s hair, gasping as long, searching fingers work their way down the front of his sweats.
This is, he realises, what Peg would do, if he ever let himself have bad dreams when he was with her; soothe the fears away with touch and her presence. But it isn’t his wife; it is Hawkeye, Hawkeye who has his hand around him now, stroking hard and fast in a perfect rhythm that is going to break him very soon, and he doesn’t care, because there is nothing but this, with Hawk whispering his name in a voice he has never heard before, and then nothing else matters at all.
*****
The bed is empty beside him when BJ awakes. He expected as much, and is in truth somewhat relieved, because, for a little while at least, he can pretend that it was all a still-induced dream.
The day passes as normal; shower, something that tries to pass itself off as breakfast -a meal that it is almost a relief to have disrupted by the arrival of choppers – slapstick humour and Charles being Charles. But there is a churning in his stomach and Hawkeye won’t quite meet his eyes, and by evening the thought of returning to the Swamp is, for BJ, on a par with stepping out into an unexploded minefield.
He is in luck however –leaving post-op he finds himself the only occupant of the shack that has, against all sense of reason, become home. He throws himself down on his bed only to spring up again because his pillow smells of Hawkeye, and so he settles himself in the safety of the chair to wait.
And wait.
Dusk turns to night. Klinger comes by on a hunt for a needle and leaves with the stockings that for some inexplicable reason Hawkeye has left drying near the still, the mosquitoes set up their nightly vigil for bare flesh, and Charles returns, as the minutes turn to hours and the day marches inexorably towards its close.
Still, Hawkeye doesn’t come.
And however much BJ had dreaded it at first, now the prospect of confrontation itself is nothing compared with the torment of waiting for it. Everything is off-kilter, in limbo, and he just wants it over with.
“He has probably fallen asleep in a glass somewhere – you can fish him out in the morning,” Charles contributes before turning off the light. BJ sits for a while longer, listening as the camp slowly slips into slumber. And then there is nothing to do but stay or go and find him, and like the coward he now knows himself to be, BJ crawls under the blankets and wraps himself in Hawkeye’s scent to wait some more.
*****
“Where were you last night?” the words stick in BJ’s throat at breakfast the next morning as Hawkeye slides onto the bench beside him. So he says nothing, refraining from making comment on the dishevelled hair and lingering smell of too-sweet perfume that tell him only too well how his bunkmate has been occupied. And all the while Hawkeye is talking; about the weather, the food, Margaret’s new haircut, and by the end of the meal BJ wants to kill him.
It doesn’t stop there. All day, the same – constant, mindless chatter, as Hawkeye does a one-man act entitled Avoidance. And then, come night fall, he disappears, leaving BJ to vent his frustration on an inflated glove and ponder over the whole disconcerting mess.
He and Hawkeye had – what the hell was the word for what they had done? – touched. Or rather, Hawkeye had touched him; he had just… gone with it. And now, with the blinkers finally removed from his eyes, he wanted to pin the man down until he damned well started talking about something that mattered. If that led to something else, then so much the better, and it is at that point he realises he is really in trouble.
The chance comes three days later. BJ is starting to think he will never sleep again, because his nights are disturbed now by dreams of another kind altogether, and even Charles is starting to show cursory curiosity as to the behaviour of his tent mates. He is alone, perched on his bed staring at an empty sheet of paper that is meant somehow to transform into a letter home, when the door bangs open and Hawkeye enters.
“What have I told you about thinking before midday?” the words shoot out after only a moment’s delay, but not before BJ catches the flicker of – fear? in the blue eyes. He almost expects him to turn and leave, but that would give too much away, and Hawkeye is nothing if not a master of dissimulation.
“What makes you think I’m thinking?”
The question is addressed to a hunched back as Hawkeye seeks refuge in the contents of the still. Glass in hand he turns; gaze on the floor, the dirty sock no one has claimed in a month, Charles’ pristine bunk, anywhere but BJ, as he stretches out on his bed.
“Well, the smoke coming out of your ears is always the first clue,” flippant as ever, Hawkeye addresses his remark to the canvas above his head. “Here’s one for you - do you think if I ask Margaret real nicely she’ll send one of her nurses over to rub my feet?”
“With or without your socks?” BJ finds himself responding, even as he tries to gather the words he needs. “Listen, Hawk, about…”
“Oh without, without,” came the instant interruption. “Besides – they’re your socks; does that mean it’s a threesome or that I need to do more laundry?”
“Afraid you’re going solo – I stole those from you in the first place.” And how easy it would be, BJ thinks, to let this go, to let Hawkeye sweep him up in the torrent of their banter until he forgets what it was he wanted to say anyway. It almost works, until he catches sight of the letter that started this whole damned thing in the first place, and he knows it’s just not possible.
“Anyway, Hawkeye…” he tries, refusing to be blindsided this time.
“Are you sure?” Hawkeye regards his feet with concentrated suspicion, announcing to the world and BJ that he is intending to do just that, “I wouldn’t be seen dead wearing these.”
“Can we --”
“Look at the colour for a start – swamp-grey does nothing for my eyes…”
“I really think--”
“Perhaps they belong to Charles – now there is a man with no taste in clothes. Anyone would think he was in the army…”
“Are you even trying to--”
“Although, what else can you expect – you can dump a man in Korea, but you can’t make him wear pink…”
“Hawkeye!” driven beyond all reasonable endurance and then some, BJ is on his feet before he realises it. Hawkeye blinks up at him, a picture of perpetual innocence, and it is all really too much.
“Why, Beej, I only--”
“What? Only what?” BJ demands, standing over him. “Only got woken up by your bunkie having a nightmare? Only kissed me? Have only been avoiding me for three straight days? Only won’t shut up?” The latter is achieved at last however with that short tirade, and all is silent for a moment before Hawkeye finally speaks.
“Wasn’t sure that you remembered.” The words are low and BJ has to lean closer to catch them and now it is his turn to blink.
“Not remember?” he manages at last, hearing the disbelief loud and clear in his own voice as he tries to read Hawkeye’s shuttered expression. “Jesus, Hawk, we… you…”
“I know.” a shrug, too, just slightly too, nonchalant. “Just - didn’t want you to think it had to mean anything…”
“And did it?” BJ’s voice wavers slightly, and he wonders if Hawkeye can hear it. Wonders what difference it would make, if any, if he does. He knows the answer in the next words spoken, soft and heartbreakingly uncertain.
“You tell me.”
Afterwards, BJ isn’t sure whether it is the first kiss or the second that gives Hawkeye his answer, but somewhere along the way it becomes a given, and by the time they break for breath there is really no room left for doubt.
Author: La Reine Bleu
Rating: Soft-R
Pairing: Hawkeye/BJ
Disclaimer: Not mine, though if there were a way.... *sighs*
Dedication: For my own personal Hawkeye xw
Notes: My first venture into M*A*S*H writing - forgive the borrowed title, as the title fairy seems to be on vacation here at the moment, and any feedback is much appreciated :-)
It Happened One Night
It was a letter. A pale, run-of-the-mill letter, smelling of ink and Peg’s perfume. He doesn’t have nightmares; leaves those to Hawkeye. Only now it is he that wakes in a trembling sweat, calling for Christ only knows what into the dank, unforgiving night.
Whatever it is, there comes an answer. The mattress dips at his side, covers pushed back to admit a source of warmth greater than any they can provide.
“Hey, Beej – I told you to skip the meatloaf.”
Teasing, soothing, familiar. Comfort. Arms around him, a nose pressed into his hair. He tries to joke back, but something sticks in his throat, and it is something else entirely that comes out.
“Hawk…”
His voice sounds lost even to his own ears. The other man must hear it too, as the embrace tightens, hands rubbing his back. How long has it been since he has allowed himself to show weakness like this? Of any kind? It hardly matters; lips are against his forehead now, whispering words he can barely hear. And so he turns his head, just a fraction, upwards, to catch the soothing endearments.
That’s when it happens.
A kiss; unexpected, unplanned. Lips on his, warm and soft, chasing away the demons he didn’t know existed until that moment. And BJ doesn’t pull away because he right now Hawkeye is the only real thing in a world that has suddenly lost its reason.
Their lips meet again, even before he realises they have pulled away in the first place, longer this time, firmer, making BJ’s head swim and his heart pound. He clings to Hawkeye, letting it happen, even as he wonders where this has come from and whether he is surprised or merely accepting of the inevitable.
For how many times has BJ been the one to cross the small space between their bunks, how often has it been him offering words of comfort to a nightmare-shaken friend? How, he asks himself, how he has missed this? There is a need, a hunger, coming off Hawkeye in waves, as if it has been waiting there forever if only he would open his eyes and see. But he doesn’t seen, for it is dark, and so BJ feels instead, hands tangling in the unexpected softness of Hawkeye’s hair, gasping as long, searching fingers work their way down the front of his sweats.
This is, he realises, what Peg would do, if he ever let himself have bad dreams when he was with her; soothe the fears away with touch and her presence. But it isn’t his wife; it is Hawkeye, Hawkeye who has his hand around him now, stroking hard and fast in a perfect rhythm that is going to break him very soon, and he doesn’t care, because there is nothing but this, with Hawk whispering his name in a voice he has never heard before, and then nothing else matters at all.
*****
The bed is empty beside him when BJ awakes. He expected as much, and is in truth somewhat relieved, because, for a little while at least, he can pretend that it was all a still-induced dream.
The day passes as normal; shower, something that tries to pass itself off as breakfast -a meal that it is almost a relief to have disrupted by the arrival of choppers – slapstick humour and Charles being Charles. But there is a churning in his stomach and Hawkeye won’t quite meet his eyes, and by evening the thought of returning to the Swamp is, for BJ, on a par with stepping out into an unexploded minefield.
He is in luck however –leaving post-op he finds himself the only occupant of the shack that has, against all sense of reason, become home. He throws himself down on his bed only to spring up again because his pillow smells of Hawkeye, and so he settles himself in the safety of the chair to wait.
And wait.
Dusk turns to night. Klinger comes by on a hunt for a needle and leaves with the stockings that for some inexplicable reason Hawkeye has left drying near the still, the mosquitoes set up their nightly vigil for bare flesh, and Charles returns, as the minutes turn to hours and the day marches inexorably towards its close.
Still, Hawkeye doesn’t come.
And however much BJ had dreaded it at first, now the prospect of confrontation itself is nothing compared with the torment of waiting for it. Everything is off-kilter, in limbo, and he just wants it over with.
“He has probably fallen asleep in a glass somewhere – you can fish him out in the morning,” Charles contributes before turning off the light. BJ sits for a while longer, listening as the camp slowly slips into slumber. And then there is nothing to do but stay or go and find him, and like the coward he now knows himself to be, BJ crawls under the blankets and wraps himself in Hawkeye’s scent to wait some more.
*****
“Where were you last night?” the words stick in BJ’s throat at breakfast the next morning as Hawkeye slides onto the bench beside him. So he says nothing, refraining from making comment on the dishevelled hair and lingering smell of too-sweet perfume that tell him only too well how his bunkmate has been occupied. And all the while Hawkeye is talking; about the weather, the food, Margaret’s new haircut, and by the end of the meal BJ wants to kill him.
It doesn’t stop there. All day, the same – constant, mindless chatter, as Hawkeye does a one-man act entitled Avoidance. And then, come night fall, he disappears, leaving BJ to vent his frustration on an inflated glove and ponder over the whole disconcerting mess.
He and Hawkeye had – what the hell was the word for what they had done? – touched. Or rather, Hawkeye had touched him; he had just… gone with it. And now, with the blinkers finally removed from his eyes, he wanted to pin the man down until he damned well started talking about something that mattered. If that led to something else, then so much the better, and it is at that point he realises he is really in trouble.
The chance comes three days later. BJ is starting to think he will never sleep again, because his nights are disturbed now by dreams of another kind altogether, and even Charles is starting to show cursory curiosity as to the behaviour of his tent mates. He is alone, perched on his bed staring at an empty sheet of paper that is meant somehow to transform into a letter home, when the door bangs open and Hawkeye enters.
“What have I told you about thinking before midday?” the words shoot out after only a moment’s delay, but not before BJ catches the flicker of – fear? in the blue eyes. He almost expects him to turn and leave, but that would give too much away, and Hawkeye is nothing if not a master of dissimulation.
“What makes you think I’m thinking?”
The question is addressed to a hunched back as Hawkeye seeks refuge in the contents of the still. Glass in hand he turns; gaze on the floor, the dirty sock no one has claimed in a month, Charles’ pristine bunk, anywhere but BJ, as he stretches out on his bed.
“Well, the smoke coming out of your ears is always the first clue,” flippant as ever, Hawkeye addresses his remark to the canvas above his head. “Here’s one for you - do you think if I ask Margaret real nicely she’ll send one of her nurses over to rub my feet?”
“With or without your socks?” BJ finds himself responding, even as he tries to gather the words he needs. “Listen, Hawk, about…”
“Oh without, without,” came the instant interruption. “Besides – they’re your socks; does that mean it’s a threesome or that I need to do more laundry?”
“Afraid you’re going solo – I stole those from you in the first place.” And how easy it would be, BJ thinks, to let this go, to let Hawkeye sweep him up in the torrent of their banter until he forgets what it was he wanted to say anyway. It almost works, until he catches sight of the letter that started this whole damned thing in the first place, and he knows it’s just not possible.
“Anyway, Hawkeye…” he tries, refusing to be blindsided this time.
“Are you sure?” Hawkeye regards his feet with concentrated suspicion, announcing to the world and BJ that he is intending to do just that, “I wouldn’t be seen dead wearing these.”
“Can we --”
“Look at the colour for a start – swamp-grey does nothing for my eyes…”
“I really think--”
“Perhaps they belong to Charles – now there is a man with no taste in clothes. Anyone would think he was in the army…”
“Are you even trying to--”
“Although, what else can you expect – you can dump a man in Korea, but you can’t make him wear pink…”
“Hawkeye!” driven beyond all reasonable endurance and then some, BJ is on his feet before he realises it. Hawkeye blinks up at him, a picture of perpetual innocence, and it is all really too much.
“Why, Beej, I only--”
“What? Only what?” BJ demands, standing over him. “Only got woken up by your bunkie having a nightmare? Only kissed me? Have only been avoiding me for three straight days? Only won’t shut up?” The latter is achieved at last however with that short tirade, and all is silent for a moment before Hawkeye finally speaks.
“Wasn’t sure that you remembered.” The words are low and BJ has to lean closer to catch them and now it is his turn to blink.
“Not remember?” he manages at last, hearing the disbelief loud and clear in his own voice as he tries to read Hawkeye’s shuttered expression. “Jesus, Hawk, we… you…”
“I know.” a shrug, too, just slightly too, nonchalant. “Just - didn’t want you to think it had to mean anything…”
“And did it?” BJ’s voice wavers slightly, and he wonders if Hawkeye can hear it. Wonders what difference it would make, if any, if he does. He knows the answer in the next words spoken, soft and heartbreakingly uncertain.
“You tell me.”
Afterwards, BJ isn’t sure whether it is the first kiss or the second that gives Hawkeye his answer, but somewhere along the way it becomes a given, and by the time they break for breath there is really no room left for doubt.
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