FIC: Heaven from Here, chapter 7
Oct. 24th, 2005 07:24 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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mash_slashTitle: Heaven from Here
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
sharselune
Rating: PG13 for language
Warnings: None
Previously:
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
The drinks were empty and the bartender refused to refill them. The clock on the wall was somewhere around midnight, though the hands were kind of blurry.
“Well what’s the use of that, then?” Charlie asked, directing a rude hand gesture towards the bartender’s back. Hawkeye found that inordinately funny. The bartender looked back at them.
“And all the liquor stores are closed by now.” Charlie looked morose, or drunk, or both.
“I’ve got something in my room,” Hawkeye said suddenly. “Vermouth sound good?”
“Does it have alcohol in it?”
“Yes?”
“Okay.” Charlie heaved himself off the barstool. “Lead the way.”
Hawkeye didn’t lead the way so much as stagger in a controlled collapse towards the elevators, leaning on Charlie’s shoulders. Charlie’s gin and tonic breath huffed against his neck. Somehow, they found their way to his room.
x.x.x.x.x.x
Peg wouldn’t let him sleep in the bed, and now BJ had to lay awake on the couch and think, which was something he didn’t want to do.
He had tried to keep Hawkeye from ruining his life, but it seemed that just his presence or thirty mile radius could cause things to happen. If Peg had her way, she’d tell him it wasn’t Hawkeye’s fault because Hawkeye hadn’t actually done anything, but BJ thought that that in itself was the problem. He never liked to admit that last part.
Korea had been different. In Korea, BJ had still be married and wouldn’t cheat, at least not more than twice, but there was something about the camaraderie, the idea that if something happened, these would be the last people he ever saw, had given everyone a sense of freedom and inhibition. You were automatically closer to these people just because you were all living in a war zone and no one else back in the states knew what it was like. People were different there.
People like Hawkeye expressed this camaraderie with every nurse he met. It wasn’t that he was particularly charming or handsome—well, he was but not enough to account for his appeal. It was that the nurses were in Korea and that was what happened in Korea.
BJ was in Korea.
BJ pulled a pillow over his head, trying to block out the light of the streelight outside the window. If he closed his eyes he could pretend he was in bed with Peg at his back and they hadn’t fought because there was nothing to fight about.
BJ was in Korea, and he slept in a cot three feet from Hawkeye. In the summer when the tent flaps were up, the lights from the compound kept him awake unless he held a pillow over his head and imagined he was in Mill Valley with Peg at his back.
Some nights Hawkeye would come in late, smelling like sex. BJ would cover his mouth with his hand, smell the bitter metal of his wedding ring.
He inhaled but now it made him think of sex and Hawkeye. He shifted on the couch, then kneaded the pillow and shoved it under his head. He heard a lonely car drive by down the street.
He was not a homosexual. Homosexuals were kicked out of the army in disgrace. They were fired from their jobs, run out of town. Homosexuals could not be surgeons. Patients feared that when their bellies lay splayed open on the operating table, a homosexual would fondle the organs with some sort of perversion, would poke around with fingers dripping with sexual deviance. Maybe, poking around in there, they would tuck a little bit of subversion in between the spleen and the diaphragm. Maybe they would flip a switch, and when the patient woke up, he would be a homosexual as well. It was only recently that whites could have a transfusion of black plasma for fear of contaminating the race. But homosexuality, that cesspool of deviance and communism that no one knew the cause of, who knew how it could spread? No homosexual could be a doctor, and even Hawkeye wouldn’t—
BJ sat up and swung his legs over the side of the couch. He needed a glass of water, or maybe a whiskey.
There was no reason for his fear of Hawkeye. He wasn’t a homosexual. Homosexuality was not contagious. Therefore, Hawkeye could come to dinner without the complete implosion of everything BJ had ever known.
He filled a glass with water from the tap and only now let himself feel guilty for leaving Hawkeye waiting at the hotel with not a word from the Hunnicutts. If he had just proven against implosion through a cool use of intellect, there was no reason why Hawkeye had to suffer.
Pulling on his shoes, BJ glanced towards the staircase leading to the bedrooms, then picked up his car keys. He didn’t need to wake Peg. He would bring Hawkeye back in time for breakfast.
x.x.x.x.x.x
The frill of the dust sham tickled the back of Hawkeye’s ankles. He sat on the edge of the bed, next to the bedside table, and poured vermouth into two glasses taken from the bathroom.
“Were you supposed to be meeting someone?” Charlie asked, accepting one of the glasses and sitting down on the armchair by the window.
“Well, he never showed up,” Hawkeye said, taking his own glass. “I don’t know if I’m surprised.”
“Why wouldn’t you be? What did you do?” Charlie asked with a snort.
Surprisingly, Hawkeye couldn’t find the answer. Maybe he had drunk too much, or maybe he had never known.
“I don’t know. We used to be friends back in Korea.”
“What happened?”
“Coming back from Korea, I think.”
Charlie mused on that. “I’m assuming he’s from San Francisco?”
“Mill Valley.”
“The long distance bills could kill a man.”
“My father died and he never even sent a card.”
“I’m sorry. About your father.”
“Me too.” Hawkeye rested his elbows on his knees and held the glass between his two hands.
“Was he sick?”
“Apparently.”
“Oh.” Charlie’s teeth clinked on the rim of his glass. “It’s terrible when it’s a surprise. My father was here one day, gone the next. Heart attack. Never got to say goodbye.”
“Me neither,” Hawkeye murmured. Then, feeling bitter, he added, “Maybe that was the point.”
“The point? Dying doesn’t have a point.”
“It does when you do it on purpose,” Hawkeye snapped. There was silence.
“Oh,” Charlie said again. “I see.”
The drink had tied a knot somewhere in Hawkeye’s chest. “I don’t know what was so wrong that he couldn’t tell me about it.” Which wasn’t entirely true, now that Hawkeye thought about it. His father never spoke about the important things. He’d avoided telling Hawkeye about his mother dying, so why should it be a surprise that he would avoid telling Hawkeye about dying himself?
“Do you know why he did it?”
Hawkeye shook his head, then reluctantly said “He was a doctor but when he had his stroke he had to retire. He always told me retirement would kill him. I didn’t know he was that serious.”
“He was a doctor too, then? Do you have a family practice?”
“Not exactly. It’s a small town and he was the family doctor for a lot of the old families there, but they’re dying out and the newer residents go to the local clinic instead. I was working at the hospital but when he had his stroke, I took over for his house calls.”
“What kind of a job did you have before that?”
“I was chief of thoracic surgery at Boston General.”
“Sounds impressive.”
Hawkeye smiled and shrugged. “It was.”
“So you left it to do house calls for a few old women?”
“It was what my father needed me to do. It kept me around to take care of him.”
Charlie let out a huff of air. “Well, did it pay well then?”
“They usually paid me in baked goods.”
Charlie laughed. “At least you never went hungry.”
“Yeah.” Hawkeye felt the alcohol rushing to his cheeks. Charlie got up to refill his glass from the bedside table and his leg brushed Hawkeye’s. Feeling even warmer, he glanced at the clock. Half past midnight. He stood up shakily and bumped Charlie’s arm. Vermouth splattered the nightstand.
“Shit. Sorry.” Hawkeye reached out to steady the bottle and then his lips bumped Charlie’s ear. Charlie turned his face towards Hawkeye and their mouths met, breath hot. Charlie took a step back and turned his head to the side and Hawkeye’s lips trailed over his cheek, his ear. Planting two hands in Hawkeye’s chest, Charlie gave him a hard shove.
“Get away from me,” he spat, breathing hard. “What the hell was that?”
“I don’t know,” Hawkeye whispered.
“What are you, queer?” Charlie wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Did you kiss me?” As if he couldn’t believe it.
“I don’t know,” Hawkeye said again. “No, I—”
“I could call the police, you faggot. You’ll never work as a doctor again.” Charlie’s voice was getting loud and Hawkeye winced, hoping the neighbors couldn’t hear.
“It was a mistake. I—I tripped, and my mouth, uh…”
Someone started knocking on the door. Hawkeye felt sick. He would never operate again, all for one stupid mistake.
Charlie grabbed up his coat. “I hope it’s hotel security.”
“I hope so too,” Hawkeye said. Charlie, hand on the doorknob, turned and raised his eyebrows. “Why?”
“Because you kissed back.”
Scowling, Charlie flung the door open as the person in the hall raised his hand to knock again. “I wouldn’t go in there if I were you,” Charlie snapped. “You might be molested.” He shoved past the person and disappeared from sight.
Hawkeye, for his part, was too busy staring at this new guest to worry. He and BJ stared at each other from across the room.
“Uh, hi,” said BJ.
final chapter
Author:
sharseluneRating: PG13 for language
Warnings: None
Previously:
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
The drinks were empty and the bartender refused to refill them. The clock on the wall was somewhere around midnight, though the hands were kind of blurry.
“Well what’s the use of that, then?” Charlie asked, directing a rude hand gesture towards the bartender’s back. Hawkeye found that inordinately funny. The bartender looked back at them.
“And all the liquor stores are closed by now.” Charlie looked morose, or drunk, or both.
“I’ve got something in my room,” Hawkeye said suddenly. “Vermouth sound good?”
“Does it have alcohol in it?”
“Yes?”
“Okay.” Charlie heaved himself off the barstool. “Lead the way.”
Hawkeye didn’t lead the way so much as stagger in a controlled collapse towards the elevators, leaning on Charlie’s shoulders. Charlie’s gin and tonic breath huffed against his neck. Somehow, they found their way to his room.
x.x.x.x.x.x
Peg wouldn’t let him sleep in the bed, and now BJ had to lay awake on the couch and think, which was something he didn’t want to do.
He had tried to keep Hawkeye from ruining his life, but it seemed that just his presence or thirty mile radius could cause things to happen. If Peg had her way, she’d tell him it wasn’t Hawkeye’s fault because Hawkeye hadn’t actually done anything, but BJ thought that that in itself was the problem. He never liked to admit that last part.
Korea had been different. In Korea, BJ had still be married and wouldn’t cheat, at least not more than twice, but there was something about the camaraderie, the idea that if something happened, these would be the last people he ever saw, had given everyone a sense of freedom and inhibition. You were automatically closer to these people just because you were all living in a war zone and no one else back in the states knew what it was like. People were different there.
People like Hawkeye expressed this camaraderie with every nurse he met. It wasn’t that he was particularly charming or handsome—well, he was but not enough to account for his appeal. It was that the nurses were in Korea and that was what happened in Korea.
BJ was in Korea.
BJ pulled a pillow over his head, trying to block out the light of the streelight outside the window. If he closed his eyes he could pretend he was in bed with Peg at his back and they hadn’t fought because there was nothing to fight about.
BJ was in Korea, and he slept in a cot three feet from Hawkeye. In the summer when the tent flaps were up, the lights from the compound kept him awake unless he held a pillow over his head and imagined he was in Mill Valley with Peg at his back.
Some nights Hawkeye would come in late, smelling like sex. BJ would cover his mouth with his hand, smell the bitter metal of his wedding ring.
He inhaled but now it made him think of sex and Hawkeye. He shifted on the couch, then kneaded the pillow and shoved it under his head. He heard a lonely car drive by down the street.
He was not a homosexual. Homosexuals were kicked out of the army in disgrace. They were fired from their jobs, run out of town. Homosexuals could not be surgeons. Patients feared that when their bellies lay splayed open on the operating table, a homosexual would fondle the organs with some sort of perversion, would poke around with fingers dripping with sexual deviance. Maybe, poking around in there, they would tuck a little bit of subversion in between the spleen and the diaphragm. Maybe they would flip a switch, and when the patient woke up, he would be a homosexual as well. It was only recently that whites could have a transfusion of black plasma for fear of contaminating the race. But homosexuality, that cesspool of deviance and communism that no one knew the cause of, who knew how it could spread? No homosexual could be a doctor, and even Hawkeye wouldn’t—
BJ sat up and swung his legs over the side of the couch. He needed a glass of water, or maybe a whiskey.
There was no reason for his fear of Hawkeye. He wasn’t a homosexual. Homosexuality was not contagious. Therefore, Hawkeye could come to dinner without the complete implosion of everything BJ had ever known.
He filled a glass with water from the tap and only now let himself feel guilty for leaving Hawkeye waiting at the hotel with not a word from the Hunnicutts. If he had just proven against implosion through a cool use of intellect, there was no reason why Hawkeye had to suffer.
Pulling on his shoes, BJ glanced towards the staircase leading to the bedrooms, then picked up his car keys. He didn’t need to wake Peg. He would bring Hawkeye back in time for breakfast.
x.x.x.x.x.x
The frill of the dust sham tickled the back of Hawkeye’s ankles. He sat on the edge of the bed, next to the bedside table, and poured vermouth into two glasses taken from the bathroom.
“Were you supposed to be meeting someone?” Charlie asked, accepting one of the glasses and sitting down on the armchair by the window.
“Well, he never showed up,” Hawkeye said, taking his own glass. “I don’t know if I’m surprised.”
“Why wouldn’t you be? What did you do?” Charlie asked with a snort.
Surprisingly, Hawkeye couldn’t find the answer. Maybe he had drunk too much, or maybe he had never known.
“I don’t know. We used to be friends back in Korea.”
“What happened?”
“Coming back from Korea, I think.”
Charlie mused on that. “I’m assuming he’s from San Francisco?”
“Mill Valley.”
“The long distance bills could kill a man.”
“My father died and he never even sent a card.”
“I’m sorry. About your father.”
“Me too.” Hawkeye rested his elbows on his knees and held the glass between his two hands.
“Was he sick?”
“Apparently.”
“Oh.” Charlie’s teeth clinked on the rim of his glass. “It’s terrible when it’s a surprise. My father was here one day, gone the next. Heart attack. Never got to say goodbye.”
“Me neither,” Hawkeye murmured. Then, feeling bitter, he added, “Maybe that was the point.”
“The point? Dying doesn’t have a point.”
“It does when you do it on purpose,” Hawkeye snapped. There was silence.
“Oh,” Charlie said again. “I see.”
The drink had tied a knot somewhere in Hawkeye’s chest. “I don’t know what was so wrong that he couldn’t tell me about it.” Which wasn’t entirely true, now that Hawkeye thought about it. His father never spoke about the important things. He’d avoided telling Hawkeye about his mother dying, so why should it be a surprise that he would avoid telling Hawkeye about dying himself?
“Do you know why he did it?”
Hawkeye shook his head, then reluctantly said “He was a doctor but when he had his stroke he had to retire. He always told me retirement would kill him. I didn’t know he was that serious.”
“He was a doctor too, then? Do you have a family practice?”
“Not exactly. It’s a small town and he was the family doctor for a lot of the old families there, but they’re dying out and the newer residents go to the local clinic instead. I was working at the hospital but when he had his stroke, I took over for his house calls.”
“What kind of a job did you have before that?”
“I was chief of thoracic surgery at Boston General.”
“Sounds impressive.”
Hawkeye smiled and shrugged. “It was.”
“So you left it to do house calls for a few old women?”
“It was what my father needed me to do. It kept me around to take care of him.”
Charlie let out a huff of air. “Well, did it pay well then?”
“They usually paid me in baked goods.”
Charlie laughed. “At least you never went hungry.”
“Yeah.” Hawkeye felt the alcohol rushing to his cheeks. Charlie got up to refill his glass from the bedside table and his leg brushed Hawkeye’s. Feeling even warmer, he glanced at the clock. Half past midnight. He stood up shakily and bumped Charlie’s arm. Vermouth splattered the nightstand.
“Shit. Sorry.” Hawkeye reached out to steady the bottle and then his lips bumped Charlie’s ear. Charlie turned his face towards Hawkeye and their mouths met, breath hot. Charlie took a step back and turned his head to the side and Hawkeye’s lips trailed over his cheek, his ear. Planting two hands in Hawkeye’s chest, Charlie gave him a hard shove.
“Get away from me,” he spat, breathing hard. “What the hell was that?”
“I don’t know,” Hawkeye whispered.
“What are you, queer?” Charlie wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Did you kiss me?” As if he couldn’t believe it.
“I don’t know,” Hawkeye said again. “No, I—”
“I could call the police, you faggot. You’ll never work as a doctor again.” Charlie’s voice was getting loud and Hawkeye winced, hoping the neighbors couldn’t hear.
“It was a mistake. I—I tripped, and my mouth, uh…”
Someone started knocking on the door. Hawkeye felt sick. He would never operate again, all for one stupid mistake.
Charlie grabbed up his coat. “I hope it’s hotel security.”
“I hope so too,” Hawkeye said. Charlie, hand on the doorknob, turned and raised his eyebrows. “Why?”
“Because you kissed back.”
Scowling, Charlie flung the door open as the person in the hall raised his hand to knock again. “I wouldn’t go in there if I were you,” Charlie snapped. “You might be molested.” He shoved past the person and disappeared from sight.
Hawkeye, for his part, was too busy staring at this new guest to worry. He and BJ stared at each other from across the room.
“Uh, hi,” said BJ.
final chapter
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