![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
mijmeraar.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
mash_slashTitle: To live, perchance to play.
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
mijmeraar
Prompt: Days.
Pairing: implied BJ/Hawkeye
Rating: PG13
Monday
“The Bird Man? Superman! No? Batman?”
“They’re not wings!”
“Hey! No talking!”
BJ huffs, rolls out three fingers, frustrated eyes pointed to the ceiling.
“Right, right. Third word. Okay … spring? Easter? Oh Easter Parade!”
“Easter? Easter? That’s it, I give up.” BJ slumps down on is own cot, reaching out for the booze, which Hawkeye promptly steals, shaking his head.
“Uh-uh, Mr. Chaplin, you don’t give up, I have to give up.”
“Well I give up for you. Geez, you really stink at this game, you know that?”
Hawkeye chuckles, albeit with conceit, sitting next to BJ and nudging with an elbow. “Sidney’s taught me all about this behaviour. It’s called transference.”
“Transference?”
“Sure. When you can’t handle your own issues you have to push it onto other people. I’m a good friend, Beej. I’ll shoulder your burdens.”
Hawkeye throws an arm around BJ and passes him a drink. BJ just shakes his head; not in disbelief [this is Hawkeye after all], but in defeat. “So,” Hawkeye persists. “What was it?”
“It’s A Wonderful Life.”
Hawkeye’s laughter floods out through the camp.
Tuesday
Hawkeye’s in a tube sock and BJ’s in a tie. The rest of their clothes are strewn haphazardly around the Swamp; somebody's underwear around Charles head, as he snores out into the night.
BJ lays his cards down on Hawkeye’s footlocker. “Two Roosters and a pig. I win.”
“You win? With two roosters and a pig? I have three rabbits and a duck. Three rabbits are worth two roosters and two ducks are worth three pigs. So, I win, by one and a half pigs.”
“You don’t even have a pig!”
“I have a duck. I win.”
“But that doesn’t make sense.”
Hawkeye rolls his eyes, because out of all the things they’re doing right now, this is the least confusing. “If a duck and a pig had a fight, who would win? That’s right, the duck.”
“They’ve got no teeth!”
“In a fight, biting is a sign of desperation.”
“I’m going to bite you in a minute.”
“Promises, promises.”
“Take off your sock.”
“Take off your tie.”
“Take off your sock and I promise not to sew the holes up while you’re sleeping.”
Hawkeye throws his cards at BJ and grabs the jug of gin, just as Radar shuffles in, head bent down, muttering about papers and Post Op and,
“Oh, Gee! Oh, you … you guys are …!”
Radar plants a hand tight over his eyes, moves backwards, falls over Hawkeye’s cot and rips a hole in the tent. Nearby nurses come running, BJ leaps for his gown, and Hawkeye can barely manage to speak through fits of laughter.
“Forget it. Radar wins.”
Wednesday
They’ve thrown Charles’ stuff out into the compound and strung up a length of rope to act as the net. BJ’s up by 5 points, which he has to keep reminding Hawkeye, apparently caught with a bout of amnesia.
The rules are, don’t let it hit the floor. The ‘it’ is anything within reaching distance.
“Aha! 890 to 884!”
“You rotten liar, I just threw one of Charles’ records! All those shattered parts should count for something!”
Hawkeye throws the coffee pot and BJ catches it, “Rule 148 states that any broken property results in a point to your opponent.”
“You just made that up.”
“Just like you made up Rule 113? Any nurse that walks by and distracts a player must be thrown over your knee and spanked?”
Hawkeye chuckles, “Hey, that rule has merit.”
“And Rule 56? The game can only end when one player collapses with starvation?”
Suddenly, Charles flings open the Swamp door, his face beet red and his record player under one arm. “Degenerates! Slimy, infantile … you will pay for this!”
Hawkeye shields himself with BJ, mutters in his ear, “Rule 1, any player sporting an ugly moustache and puppy dog eyes has to answer to Winchester.”
Thursday
It’s ten o’clock in the Officers Club and they’re six beers down, on the other side of insanity.
“Pockle? Pockle isn’t a word.”
“Of course it is.”
“What does it mean?”
“It’s uhh … you know … a state of accomplishment.”
BJ lifts one eyebrow and bows his head. “So, in a sentence that would be …”
“Whilst playing Scrabble, I spelled out a 28 point word. I feel very pockled.”
“Unbelievable! Not only are you making up words, you're lying about your score!”
“That’s a Double Word Score, pal. I’d show you the instruction manual but it’s under the table leg making sure all your made up words don’t slide off the board.”
“I haven’t made up words!”
“Uh, peace? Only you could think up something that crazy.”
BJ laughs despite himself, throwing his letter rack down in disgust. “You’re diabolical.”
“Great big words may break my bones but sore losers really hurt me”.
Friday
“I’m sick of all these games,” BJ complains, while Hawkeye tries to draw out a new one on a scrap piece of paper. A scrap piece of paper that looks suspiciously like a page out of Charles’ Shakspeare.
“All work and no play makes BJ a dull boy,” Hawkeye mutters, scribbling furiously.
“It’s my turn to think of something,”
“As I recall, you thought of Charades. Look how that turned out.”
“It’s not my fault you’re hopeless!”
“And it’s not my fault you’re deluded,” Hawkeye thrusts the piece of paper in BJ’s face. “Look, all we need is two spare wheelchairs and a length of rope-”
“You’d have to convince me not to tie you up with it,” BJ growls, swatting at Hawkeye’s hand and reaching over for the gin. Hawkeye wiggles his eyebrows, his voice curled into a purr.
“Now he thinks of a good game to play.”
“I’m on strike. Ask Charles.”
“See, that’s just cruel.”
“Away with you, knave.”
“We could always dress up like Knights!”
“That’s just tacky.”
“Just like that moustache.”
“You expect me to play games with you when-”
“Sirs!” It’s Radar, looking them in the eye for the first time in three days. “We got wounded coming in. Colonel says alotta them.” He scurries off, leaving a silence in his wake. Nothing worth arguing now.
“Come on,” BJ discards his drink, stands and pats Hawkeye on the shoulder. The paper is crumpled up in his fist. “Come on.” BJ takes the paper and unfolds it, places it safely on his cot. “We’ll play games when this is done.”
Author:
mijmeraarPrompt: Days.
Pairing: implied BJ/Hawkeye
Rating: PG13
Monday
“The Bird Man? Superman! No? Batman?”
“They’re not wings!”
“Hey! No talking!”
BJ huffs, rolls out three fingers, frustrated eyes pointed to the ceiling.
“Right, right. Third word. Okay … spring? Easter? Oh Easter Parade!”
“Easter? Easter? That’s it, I give up.” BJ slumps down on is own cot, reaching out for the booze, which Hawkeye promptly steals, shaking his head.
“Uh-uh, Mr. Chaplin, you don’t give up, I have to give up.”
“Well I give up for you. Geez, you really stink at this game, you know that?”
Hawkeye chuckles, albeit with conceit, sitting next to BJ and nudging with an elbow. “Sidney’s taught me all about this behaviour. It’s called transference.”
“Transference?”
“Sure. When you can’t handle your own issues you have to push it onto other people. I’m a good friend, Beej. I’ll shoulder your burdens.”
Hawkeye throws an arm around BJ and passes him a drink. BJ just shakes his head; not in disbelief [this is Hawkeye after all], but in defeat. “So,” Hawkeye persists. “What was it?”
“It’s A Wonderful Life.”
Hawkeye’s laughter floods out through the camp.
Tuesday
Hawkeye’s in a tube sock and BJ’s in a tie. The rest of their clothes are strewn haphazardly around the Swamp; somebody's underwear around Charles head, as he snores out into the night.
BJ lays his cards down on Hawkeye’s footlocker. “Two Roosters and a pig. I win.”
“You win? With two roosters and a pig? I have three rabbits and a duck. Three rabbits are worth two roosters and two ducks are worth three pigs. So, I win, by one and a half pigs.”
“You don’t even have a pig!”
“I have a duck. I win.”
“But that doesn’t make sense.”
Hawkeye rolls his eyes, because out of all the things they’re doing right now, this is the least confusing. “If a duck and a pig had a fight, who would win? That’s right, the duck.”
“They’ve got no teeth!”
“In a fight, biting is a sign of desperation.”
“I’m going to bite you in a minute.”
“Promises, promises.”
“Take off your sock.”
“Take off your tie.”
“Take off your sock and I promise not to sew the holes up while you’re sleeping.”
Hawkeye throws his cards at BJ and grabs the jug of gin, just as Radar shuffles in, head bent down, muttering about papers and Post Op and,
“Oh, Gee! Oh, you … you guys are …!”
Radar plants a hand tight over his eyes, moves backwards, falls over Hawkeye’s cot and rips a hole in the tent. Nearby nurses come running, BJ leaps for his gown, and Hawkeye can barely manage to speak through fits of laughter.
“Forget it. Radar wins.”
Wednesday
They’ve thrown Charles’ stuff out into the compound and strung up a length of rope to act as the net. BJ’s up by 5 points, which he has to keep reminding Hawkeye, apparently caught with a bout of amnesia.
The rules are, don’t let it hit the floor. The ‘it’ is anything within reaching distance.
“Aha! 890 to 884!”
“You rotten liar, I just threw one of Charles’ records! All those shattered parts should count for something!”
Hawkeye throws the coffee pot and BJ catches it, “Rule 148 states that any broken property results in a point to your opponent.”
“You just made that up.”
“Just like you made up Rule 113? Any nurse that walks by and distracts a player must be thrown over your knee and spanked?”
Hawkeye chuckles, “Hey, that rule has merit.”
“And Rule 56? The game can only end when one player collapses with starvation?”
Suddenly, Charles flings open the Swamp door, his face beet red and his record player under one arm. “Degenerates! Slimy, infantile … you will pay for this!”
Hawkeye shields himself with BJ, mutters in his ear, “Rule 1, any player sporting an ugly moustache and puppy dog eyes has to answer to Winchester.”
Thursday
It’s ten o’clock in the Officers Club and they’re six beers down, on the other side of insanity.
“Pockle? Pockle isn’t a word.”
“Of course it is.”
“What does it mean?”
“It’s uhh … you know … a state of accomplishment.”
BJ lifts one eyebrow and bows his head. “So, in a sentence that would be …”
“Whilst playing Scrabble, I spelled out a 28 point word. I feel very pockled.”
“Unbelievable! Not only are you making up words, you're lying about your score!”
“That’s a Double Word Score, pal. I’d show you the instruction manual but it’s under the table leg making sure all your made up words don’t slide off the board.”
“I haven’t made up words!”
“Uh, peace? Only you could think up something that crazy.”
BJ laughs despite himself, throwing his letter rack down in disgust. “You’re diabolical.”
“Great big words may break my bones but sore losers really hurt me”.
Friday
“I’m sick of all these games,” BJ complains, while Hawkeye tries to draw out a new one on a scrap piece of paper. A scrap piece of paper that looks suspiciously like a page out of Charles’ Shakspeare.
“All work and no play makes BJ a dull boy,” Hawkeye mutters, scribbling furiously.
“It’s my turn to think of something,”
“As I recall, you thought of Charades. Look how that turned out.”
“It’s not my fault you’re hopeless!”
“And it’s not my fault you’re deluded,” Hawkeye thrusts the piece of paper in BJ’s face. “Look, all we need is two spare wheelchairs and a length of rope-”
“You’d have to convince me not to tie you up with it,” BJ growls, swatting at Hawkeye’s hand and reaching over for the gin. Hawkeye wiggles his eyebrows, his voice curled into a purr.
“Now he thinks of a good game to play.”
“I’m on strike. Ask Charles.”
“See, that’s just cruel.”
“Away with you, knave.”
“We could always dress up like Knights!”
“That’s just tacky.”
“Just like that moustache.”
“You expect me to play games with you when-”
“Sirs!” It’s Radar, looking them in the eye for the first time in three days. “We got wounded coming in. Colonel says alotta them.” He scurries off, leaving a silence in his wake. Nothing worth arguing now.
“Come on,” BJ discards his drink, stands and pats Hawkeye on the shoulder. The paper is crumpled up in his fist. “Come on.” BJ takes the paper and unfolds it, places it safely on his cot. “We’ll play games when this is done.”
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}