[mijmeraar] And I'll Keep You Close, part 1 of 1 (13+)

[mijmeraar.livejournal.com]

Title: And I'll keep you close.
Author: mijmeraar
Pairing: BJ/Hawkeye [surprise!]
Rating: 13+
Prompt: Smell.
A/N: Still early stages of a 'relationship'. Let me know what you think of Hawkeye here, and my perception of his mum. And, hope you enjoy. ETA: thanks to hawkeyecat for a few handy hints.

They’re squeezed in a corner of Rosie’s, empty beer cans at their feet and peanut crumbs littered across the table. It’s a busy night – somebody’s going home – so BJ leans close, words heavy on Hawkeye’s skin.

“Tell me about her. About your mom.”

Hawkeye’s expression doesn’t flicker, calm or covert. He pushes hair out of his face, swigs more beer, plays with a torn up napkin. “Mom? Why?”

BJ examines Hawkeye. Neck, chin, mouth, eyes – gazes locked – trying to find something, to hear it, see it, breath it, to understand. He knows it’s no good, he knows that Hawkeye’s heart is not there to be stolen. He’s learnt too many lessons. “She’s part of you right?”

“Sure,”

“You carry her with you?”

“Yeah. Under lock and key.”

BJ falters, “You … you talk about your dad all the time.”

“Dad’s a phone call away, Beej,” Hawkeye shifts in his seat, suddenly tense, BJ feeling it where their thighs touch, feeling it in the hot sticky air that wheezes between them. “Mom’s not so easy to get in touch with. Even Mulcahy would have trouble with that long distance.”

“You don’t want to talk about your mum?”

“I never said that.”

“So why are you dodging all of my questions?”

“I answered them,” Hawkeye’s tone is laced with caution now, sitting up and moving ever slightly so that no contact remains. “You never answered mine. Why?”

“Why? Because … because she’s your mother. Because she’s part of you. Of what makes you … you. I would just like to know her a little better.”

“Well, okay, if you want a profile. Her name was Elizabeth Pierce, nee Cross, and she was thirty-two when she died. She stayed home and looked after us and made a mean apple pie. Should I go on?”

BJ stares him down, letting his beer go and pushing away from the table. He shudders with the cold emanating from his best friend, from disappointment and disbelief. “Beej-” BJ leaves, thankfully swallowed up by the crowd, a chance to make an escape before Hawkeye can make a scene. He kicks this bin and that jeep along the way, back to the Swamp, back to the only home he has right now, that he so desperately wants to make sense of. They kiss and they touch and they push their own boundaries because they need – they want – each other. Today, tomorrow, next week. Why couldn’t they sink deeper than skin, why wouldn’t Hawkeye let him?

It’s a while before Hawkeye joins him, a long while, Frank off playing doctor with HotLips, the only thing standing between them, themselves. Hawkeye rustles about, takes off his boots and sits on his cot, pours himself a drink. He gulps it down, sighs in relief and BJ keeps his back to him. Hawkeye slides in, underneath the covers, grooving their bodies together and propping his head above BJ’s. His mouth brushes BJ’s ear, his voice like the lick of wind that sneaks beneath the walls of their tent.

“She smelled like fresh bread and clean air and, and the soap we used to wash up, you know, the same one that we used for bed blankets, that helps you get to sleep at night because the smell … it’s like she’s there, she’s lying with you.”

BJ turns onto his back and looks up at Hawkeye, not speaking, giving him room, “I made Dad buy the same soap for five years after she died, until he decided I was too old for that. I …I bought it with my own money, anyway.”

BJ moves a hand up Hawkeye’s chest, around his neck, the moon lighting up his face, his eyes closed from the touch. “She used to sing Second Hand Rose, every day, while she cooked dinner or worked on her paintings. She liked to paint. She, she would scald me for my dirty knees but she’d still bathe them clean, a smile on her face. She had her own ideas on right and wrong and would always tell Dad when he was being a fool, and he’d smile, he’d kiss her and they would dance around the kitchen,”

There’s a sharp intake of breath and BJ pulls him close, pulls him down so that they’re curled up, one, Hawkeye’s face buried in BJ’s neck, fingers clenched in BJ’s skin as if he is weak, as if he needs to hold onto something. He surfaces, not too close and not too far, it says, I need you but I can’t want you.

“If she knew, if she saw us here like this, she would … She would call me a fool,” BJ holds him tighter, doesn’t know the words, “Then she would sit down. She would sit down and she’d say … she’d say … ‘Does he make you happy?’ even though she doesn’t agree, even though she wouldn’t like it.”

BJ runs a hand through Hawkeye’s hair, the other up his back, feel the muscles there tremble, “What would you tell her?” he asks, his voice hoarse and uncertain, everything so uncertain.

“You know,” Hawkeye says, exposed enough for one night perhaps, just silencing BJ with soft and guiltless lips, “You know.”