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[hawk1701.livejournal.com]

Title: No Olive Drab, Part 2
Author: hawk1701 (as in, NCC-1701-D, Enterprise)
Pairing: BJ/Hawkeye
Rating: 7+
Disclaimer: I don't own anything . . . I don't even have a pair of matching socks, thus, no MASH.
Summary:  After Part1 (Hawk came out to Beej, they got drunk, things happened) Hawk's trying to salvage the relationship, and when talking to Beej doesn't work, he goes to talk to Mulcahy . . .

Also, since Part 1 was a long time ago, and it's since been edited, I will post it again, but for now . . .

 

            Morning. That awful time between sunrise and any sane hour of the day. Somewhere between unconsciousness and mild awareness. Sometimes aided with coffee and a cold shower. Non-exchangeable with much preferred afternoon hours. Morning would make any sane man crazy. In fact, there’s a window of time, about ten minutes directly after being woken up, where I can’t hear another voice or see another person and be held accountable for my actions. Luckily it takes me more than that amount of time to get to the mess tent.

            I stand in line with the vague impression I’m holding a tray then find BJ sitting at a nearby table. I make it to the bench then slump down, the tray clattering to a halt on the table top. I prop myself up on my elbows. My fork feels cold and cruel in my hands, like a scalpel, the piece of toast on my tray is the color of dirt . . . maybe it is dirt. Dirt on toast.

            “Yo,” I said, looking to meet his eyes.

            “Hi,” he responded, taking a bite of eggs.

            “We gotta talk,” I said in a quieter voice, looking around to make sure no one was coming to sit down.

            He watched me look, then closed his eyes, rubbing a hand over his temple, “So it did happen,” he releases a breathe, “I wasn’t dreaming,”

            “We can forget it,” I said, taking the stiff toast in my hand, not looking at him as I struggle to get words off my cotton-coated tongue, “It never happened,” I feel the mess tent jar with each pound in my head. How could I be so stupid, how is it possible, I ask myself miserably. I nodded several times, confirming the plan of action or my own stupidity I don’t know, “Let’s just try and forget it,”

            “I dunno if I can do that,” he said softly. I’m scared to look at him but when I lift my eyes I fall into his blue gaze. He holds my eyes for a few seconds, not mad or disgusted, more uncertain, sad, wavering like they’d break, “Do you know why what happened, happened last night?”

            “Yeah,” I muttered, “I have a pretty good idea,” I looked up, making eye contact, “Me. It was my fault,”

            “No it wasn’t,” he said steadily, “Not entirely. We could blame it on the long day, exhaustion, the bad food, whatever you’d like, I know I tried to, but the truth is . . .” his eyes fell for a moment, “We’re two people caught up in terrible circumstances. Any extended period of time like this would be too much for anyone. There’s no comfort here, no hope that it’ll get better. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t the loneliest I’ve ever been . . . I’ve discovered new layers of hell I didn’t know existed,” he said, “And I don’t know what to do with myself . . . it doesn’t make sense to me. None of it does. The truth is I’ve come to depend on you, Hawkeye. I don’t know what I’d do without you in a place like this. It happened because I care about you,”

            “It happened because I made a mistake,” I said, throwing the piece of toast back down to my tray with a thud “I should have never put you in that situation. Ever. Why I couldn’t just keep my mouth shut is beyond me. I know better than that,”

            “Hawk, don’t fly off the handle, I haven’t accused you of anything,”

            “I’m sorry, were you there last night? Maybe you missed what happened. I know I didn’t,”

            “Hawk—”

            “Beej, you don’t get it! You don’t understand! Do you know what happens to guys like me? Do you know how hard it is? Relationships aren’t relationships. They’re dangerous!” I pushed my hair roughly from my face, “The fact that I’m even talking about this—I can’t believe it—”

            “Hawk would you just let me talk!” Beej exclaimed in a raised voice, making me stop suddenly, “Thank you,” he said once I’d closed my mouth. He shakes his head, running a hand quickly over his mouth, “I knew you’d do this. I’m trying to be calm about this,”

            “Fine,” I respond, sitting back.

            “Good,” he replies, his fork still in his hand, balanced over his forefinger, “Just take it easy,” he heaves a deep breathe, “Not like I don’t have enough troubles, now you’re a wreck,”

            “Oh I see,” I said, “You are blaming me. It’s my fault, huh? My fault you have to keep me together, it’s your responsibility,”

            “It kinda is,”

            “Right, and that’s a help to me how?”

            “Hawk, you’re doing it again,”

            “Doing what again?”

            “Trying to make me mad,” his hand tightens into a fist around his fork but he uncurls his fingers, eyes flashing briefly.

            “And you never get mad, is that it, Beej?” I shrug one shoulder, “Makes it easier for you to be all high and mighty when it comes to other people’s emotions,”

            “That’s not true—”

            “I wasn’t the only one there last night. You had something to do with it too,” I lowered my voice, almost to a whisper, my heart pounding like shell fire in my ears, “You asked me to kiss you. So I did. But you kissed me after that. You kissed me. That’s gotta mean something,”

            “It means what I said,” Beej replied in a whisper.

            I paused, our eyes meeting over the trays of powered eggs and stale toast, “That you care about me,” I repeated, watching the blue surfaces of his eyes like they were the sea, “I don’t know what you mean by that,”

            He blinked, “It’s not that complicated,”

            “Last night it seemed to be,”

            His eyes didn’t leave mine, he swallowed, blinking several times, the seconds passing like centuries, “I love my wife,”

            That made me look away. My eyes fell to my tray for a moment. I knew I should have been prepared for this but after he said it I felt like I’d been stabbed in the chest. Rejection never suited me to be honest, I always thought feeling like someone wanted to be with you was nicer than being kicked out and replaced by someone else. It wasn’t just that it was someone else, anyway, I was the someone else in this case—it was something else . . . I wanted someone to love me. Love me like they loved their wives. I wanted what they had. And I’d never get it. Wasn’t I good enough for that? Worse, wasn’t it possible?      

            “I wouldn’t do anything to hurt her,” he continues. I look up, my face still and expressionless, “Wouldn’t I be hurting her, did I already hurt her when I kissed you?” His eyes are wide, helpless, fearful.

            “I don’t think I can answer that, Beej,”

            “I can,” he said. He sits back, “I love my wife,” he gets up.

            “Attention! Attention! All personnel report to their duty stations, incoming casualties expected within the hour. This is a big one folks,” 

            We both switch gears so easily it’s become an art form. All areas of the brain that don’t involve cutting into people and picking out the shinny bits are turned off. It’s all automatic after a point. And I’m glad too. I’m glad I don’t have to think. My metaphorical wound, which only seemed to be getting worse, was nothing compared to what these guys had done to them. So I put it all aside, I can do that too, and concentrated on what was important.

            There were several really bad chest cases. Hearts in pretty bad shape. It seemed almost funny. I would have laughed if I didn’t feel like crying. Broken hearts. Luckily I was able to handle them all okay. I would be lying if I said I was totally concentrated on the work. Most of me was, most of me that is except this tiny corner of my mind that wouldn’t shut up no matter how much I tried.

            I’m a great surgeon. I save lives. I do good. I should be proud. But sometimes it’s hard to feel that way all the time. I’m stitching an artery together and that tiny part of my brain is giving a whole new meaning to the term inner dialogue. I’m peeling bloody gloves off my hands and my brain reminds me what, who, my hands have touched, who I’ve kissed, who I love, and it all seems wrong, sickeningly, desperately, helplessly wrong.

            I’m aware of the other surgeons, the nurses, all doing the same dance routine. I know what BJ’s up to, I know he’s dealing with a few hard cases right now too. I glance over at him once, the breathe under my mask stale and uncomfortable, then I’m back into the blood and guts. My boots slip in blood that’s splattered on the floor. A patient bleeds out so much it’s pouring from the stretcher. Margaret yells orders. She’s good at that. But I’m glad it’s her and not me. That woman is amazing. Frank doesn’t even talk much this time around. It’s like a constant set of variables, in this case sound variables. While I’m working I’ve got Potter’s rough bark, Margaret’s shrill screeching, Franks high, nasal objections, and BJ’s low, even voice somewhere mixed up in it all.

            And the wounded keep coming. Its nineteen hours later that it all ends. I’m tugging off my scrubs, throwing them in the laundry, my eyes falling shut. The door bursts open, making me look up. BJ strides in with two long steps, tearing his mask off, throwing it violently into the basket, “I had him! God damn it I almost got him back,” He rips at his scrubs, shoving them with distaste in the bins.

            “Private Willis?” I asked, remembering the kid.

            “If I’d gotten to him five minutes earlier he might have made it!” he covered his face with his hands, they’re shaking. “He died right there on the table and all I could do was watch the blood pump out of his heart,” he rubbed a hand on the back of his neck, chest heaving with labored breaths. He closed his eyes and it looked like he wanted to hit something, every muscle tense, but instead he found some way to bat it down. He slumped down onto the bench, head resting against the wall, eyes closed.

            I take my shirt off the hook, pulling it over my stiff shoulders, turning the collar right side up, “There wasn’t anything you could do, Beej, there wasn’t enough of that kid left, you did the best you could,” I take a seat next to him, sighing, the weight off my feet was heaven. Felt so good to sit.

            “God, it was terrible,” he sits forward, elbows on his knees, voice thick with tears, “How do we keep doing this? Now that I’m out of there all I can think about is how I never want to go in there again,”

            “Alright we won’t,” I said, trying very hard to lighten my voice, stretching my arms, then letting them fall limp at my sides, “Let’s join the circus, they won’t find us there. Just promise you’ll let me work with the ponies,”

            “I’m not joking,”

            “Neither am I,” I said, running a hand over my hair, letting the dark strands slip through my fingers, “I’ve always dreamed of the Big Top,” I sigh, “Traveling circuses are like the last bands of gypsies . . . I like that. I could have been a gypsy. Never in one place for too long, taking what you can get. Utter freedom.”

            Beej sat listening. I looked over at him, trying to keep my eyes open, “Beej, you gotta get to bed, come on,” I stand up, wavering, holding my arms out a little to keep on my feet, “Come on. Up. You can’t sleep here,”

            He doesn’t respond, just unfolds his long legs, getting up unsteadily. For a second I think he’s going to faint, his eyes flutter shut and he slumps to one side, I catch him just as he’s struggling to get his feet under himself.

            “BJ,” I exclaim, holding him up, “You okay?”

            “Fine,” he mutters, his hands steadying his tall frame against mine, “Just tired I guess,” He looks up for a second, one of his hands on my arm, the other at my side. I can feel him shaking.

            “Can you stand?” I asked, heart pounding with concern, trying to get him to look at me. At least I could see his pupils, make sure he’s alright. His hand tightens on my arm, I feel the one on my side grip the folds of my shirt, he sniffs, licking his lips. But he’s still not looking at me. I rub his shoulder, “Beej?”

            He looks up, “I’m sorry,” he said in barely a whisper.

            “What’s there to be sorry about?” I respond quietly.

            He takes a few ragged breathes, “Just sorry,” his eyes shine dully with tears, “Sorry about Willis, sorry about the whole war, I’m just sorry,” his words blend together, his fingers dig into my uniform.

            “Beej,” I said. I wish I could think of comforting words but there just weren’t any. We’d all been here. Out of surgery, feeling like he’d just lost our hope along with all the blood shed in there.

            He looks up, a bit more comprehensible, “I feel awful,” his eyes search mine, “I can’t stand it,” He looked angry, more angry than tired now. He wipes a hand frustratingly over his nose, red eyes not meeting mine, “God, why do you have to just stand there? Can’t you just go away? I can’t—” he stops himself from talking, gritting his teeth. For a moment he fumes, then he shakes his head slowly, “I swear I never meant for this to happen—it was a mistake,” he looked up, eye flickering to mine, “Okay?” he sounded certain but he moved closer to me just the same. He was standing close enough that I could smell him, hear his breath, feel the heat radiating off his skin.

            “I said that already,” I said, navigating the depths of his eyes.

            “I know,” he responded, “I know,” A hand comes up behind my head. I stiffened. Brought a hand to his shoulder. Feel myself shaking. Maybe it’s him. Or both of us. The muscles in his arms tense. My hand moves to his neck, somehow locked in place. His breath is hot over my mouth. I shake my head, close my eyes, “Beej, what are you doing?” I asked in a low voice. It all seems different than last night because I can’ smell the gin, “God, this is ten feet from Potter’s office,”

            “Hawk, I don’t care,” he growled, closing his eyes in frustration, hands moving to grasp my shirt.

            Neither do I, I thought. No. Forced myself to say, “Actually you do,” I said aloud, trying to ignore how fast my heart’s beating. Aggressive BJ was a sexy BJ. Very sexy, “I hate to pull rank Captain but as Chief Surgeon I’m giving you an indirect order,” I take a shaky breath, “Come on, Beej, you need sleep—let’s just go back to the Swamp,”

            His hold loosened. The door from the OR opened and Margaret walked through, breathing heavily as she pulls her apron off, hair damp with sweat. She saw us and slowed, “Captains,” she regarded us through one narrowed eye as she tossed the apron, shaking her hair out, “Fall apart in your quarters,” she said coolly, “We don’t need to see it,”

            Beej straightened, not saying a word to her, striding out the door quickly.

            I stood for a moment. Two moments. Three. Margaret cleared her throat.

            “Good work in there today, Pierce,” she said, turning on the faucet to wash her hands in her usual fast, thorough way, “I thought it would never stop,”

            “My timer says I’m good for another ten hours,” I said, taking the first deep breath in awhile, shrugging with a reflexive smile at her, “I’m indispensable as long as someone remembers to recharge me,”

            She shook her head, scowling, “Maybe one day you’ll realize you aren’t as incredible as you think you are, Captain,” she finished drying her hands, “You’re only as human as the rest of us,”

            She left a lot like BJ had—moving fast as I just stood still. I detached my feet from the floor, my boots full of cement. I left post-op, heading for the one place I never thought I’d go.

            >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

“Hawkeye,” the Father said, turning in his chair, a finger marking his place in the book he was reading, “What are you doing here?”

            Well that’s nice. No ‘good to see you’ or ‘what a pleasant surprise’. Good to know he thinks so highly of me.

            “Is this a bad time, Father?” I asked, standing just in the door.

            “No, of course not,” he smiled, “Forgive me, I’m just not used to anyone stopping by,” he stands up, brushing a hand through his light blonde hair, “There was a fellow that came in a few nights ago but it turned out he only took a wrong turn . . . he was looking for nurse Aaron’s tent . . .”

            I met his eyes for an instant. They were hopeful. He just wanted to do something for someone. He was a priest, aside from talking to people and helping out in the O.R., his skills were primarily clerical. He was supposed to hear confessions and help people. He helped them. So that’s why I’m here. Because this is what he does. I cut people open, he talks to them before/during/after. 

            “Do you . . . want to sit down?” he asked tentatively, motioning toward a chair.

            “I think I’d rather stand,”

            “Well . . . that’s fine . . . what can I do for you, my son?” he folded his hands quietly in his lap.

            “Uh,” I said. Eloquent, I think to myself, great, this was a terrific idea. I don’t know why I had. For comfort? How could he comfort me? I wasn’t religious. In fact in his book people like me had a one way ticket to hell.

            “I just thought . . . we could talk,” I said, hands in my pockets, “You know, just to talk,” I cleared my throat uncomfortably. 

            “Well, I’m a very good listener,” he responded evenly.

            I watched him for a moment, swallowing back a bad taste in my throat, “This is just between us, right? You can’t tell anyone,”

            “That’s correct,”

            I breathed a sigh of relief, my heart pounding. I paced a few steps back and forth. Stop, I told myself, forcing my feet to a halt.

            “Perhaps if you just told me the problem and go from there,” he suggested.

            “Right,” I responded, “Go from there,” I nodded, “Problem, um . . . I know you probably won’t understand this—and this isn’t a confession. I don’t believe in that –this is more for advice, you know,” I clapped my hands together anxiously. The Father was sitting under his desk lamp, the light falling around him in a way that for a moment it looked almost heavenly. How did he do that?

I shrugged, feet not staying still on the dusty ground, “I figured in the area of distinguishing between right and wrong you’ve got the clearer picture,”

“Well,” he said, a reassuring smile lighting his face, “I can at least have an objective opinion. Though, if I can’t offer absolution, I’d be happy to at least offer guidance,” his eyes peered at me over the rim of his glasses, “If that would help,”

“Good,” I said, smiling widely, feeling behind me for the door, a nervous laugh making it past my lips, “Well, we’re at an understanding then,” I turned, opening the door.

“Hawkeye!” Father Mulcahy called. I stopped, “If you can’t talk about whatever it is, perhaps it’d be easier to just start talking, about whatever,” he pushed his glasses back up his nose, shifting in his chair to sit forward. I stood by the door, not moving. He continued talking in his usual calm voice, “Private Willis was a fine boy . . . I just finished writing his parents. He had a letter in his uniform—though I thought they needed more of an explanation . . . he was BJ’s patient, was he not?”

“Yeah,” I answered tentatively, taking a few steps into the tent, “He’s pretty torn up about it,”

“A gentle soul, BJ, a gentle soul indeed,” Father Mulcahy lowered his eyes in thought, shaking his head slowly, “It’s not in his nature to let things go—he’s a man of deep feeling,” he looked up with a slow sigh, “And there are so few happy feeling here . . . I’m afraid there are none left except for the bad ones,”

“That’s the thing,” I said, “There’s nothing I can do short of writing fan mail to the peace delegates or offering to take all of China’s tonsils out for free as long as they agree to call the whole thing off,” I shrugged helplessly, meeting Mulcahy’s eyes pleadingly, “I mean, there’s only so many times I can say, ‘everything’s going to be okay’ before I can’t say it anymore,” I took the chair opposite of him, “I didn’t even believe myself the first time,”

“Your underestimating the power of words, my son,” the Father said steadily, “Perhaps all BJ needs are a few comforting words from a friend. It’s all any of us can hope for at times,” he paused in thought, “Look at what I do—words are the only tools I have to use . . . sometimes I’m afraid it’s not enough . . . sometimes I know it’s not enough,” he looked back at me, somehow his gentle face set and resolute, “But if we can’t find hope in our situations we must find hope in each other,”

“Father, it’s more than that,” I said, “Because words aren’t enough . . . they weren’t enough,” I looked down, closing my eyes, “And now I’ve just made things worse for him . . .,” I looked up, eyes focused dully on the khaki walls of the makeshift chapel, “A lot worse,”

“How so?” Father Mulcahy asked.

            When I focused my eyes on him I saw he was just listening quietly. But I’m too much of a coward to maintain eye contact, “He loves his wife,” I said, “He loves her,” I pressed my lips together, then wiped a hand across my nose, “More than anything. He has a daughter . . . he has this wonderful life . . . ” my chest ached, “And he misses them . . . he misses her,” I realized my throat’s tight and it seems like I almost can’t breath, “He loves her,” I kept my eyes away from the Father, “And . . . that means he can’t love me,” “He cares about you,” Father Mulcahy said earnestly, “I know he does,”

            “Caring is one thing, Father . . . but I think we crossed a line  . . . and I don’t know what to do,” a brought a hand to my forehead tiredly.

            “Crossed a line?” he asked carefully, “Which line?”

            “That line,” I said, somewhat sharply, “We were drunk, I’m not even sure what happened,”

            For a moment Mulcahy’s eyes remained unchanged then it seemed to dawn on him, his blue eyes blinking rapidly behind the lenses of his glasses. He readjusted the frames, clearing his throat, “I see,” he looked down at the book in his lap, shrugging his shoulders after a few seconds, “Did you mean to do it?”

            Did I mean to? What was he asking? Did I do this on purpose? Like I really wanted everything to be a complete and total mess. No, he’s a priest, I assured myself, he’s just trying to make you think of right and wrong, good and bad. Because if I didn’t mean to do it than that’s okay.

But I’d told BJ about Arthur. I’d kissed him when he asked me to—it was a conscious decision, I’d had control of myself. Besides the gin, which is a mute point after so long, it was just me. Plus, a little gin isn’t an excuse. Not for this. Jesus, I’d spent a lifetime building up a resistance, I knew how to handle it, I know which door I kept it behind, what the hell’s wrong with me, how could I have been so careless?

“Yeah,” I said, drawing a slow breath, “Yeah . . . I did,”

Silence.

“And now he’s not talking about it,” I continued, “Not saying a word,” my hands balled into fists on my knees, “I don’t know what to do and I couldn’t—” stopped, bit back anger, a sick feeling crawling over me, “I couldn’t stop myself,” I looked up, shaking my head, feeling like I’d said too much, and I probably did, “So,” I said, forcing my voice back to normal, “Whatdaya say?” I shrugged, sitting up and crossing an ankle over my knee, “Ten hail Marys? Five Our Fathers?”

Mulcahy shook off the deflection. Hell, I might’ve underestimated him. He knew his way around a confession, or whatever this was. Or maybe it was the total terror on my face that gave me away. I felt transparent, like Father Mulcahy could see right through me. He must know that I didn’t hide being gay to hurt anyone. I had to. I had to protect myself. It’s not like the lying was easy. It was never easy.

“No, neither,” Father Mulcahy said tensely, then raised both of his pale eyebrows, “This may surprise you, Hawkeye but you’re not the first solider to come to me with this . . . problem,” I must have looked shocked. “Really,” he continued, “A lot of boys, or I should say a few, at least, I’m not really sure, find out many things about themselves over here . . .” he rubbed his chin thoughtfully, “Perhaps the close relationships they form with fellow soldiers precipitate it . . . there was this one boy, a Corporal—”

“Father,” I interrupted impatiently.

He cleared this throat, straightening his glasses. He paused, like he was collecting himself, then took a deep breathe, “Normally,” he said, eyes downcast, “I’d tell you that there’s nothing wrong with you, that we are all God’s children, no matter what, and those things are true, but . . .” he sighed, “This is different. You’re not being moved to Seoul or Tokyo, or back to the front, you’re staying here,” he paused in emphasis, “And it’s not easy to keep a secret here,”

“As a lover of gossip myself, I know what you mean,” I laced my fingers together, biting at my lower lip. I stared at my boots in the dirt, then looked up to meet the Father’s eyes, “I’ll figure it out,” I said, though my voice wasn’t at all convincing. He’d mentioned just what I didn’t want to think about. Exposure. “Danger, loss of a brilliant reputation, not to mention my career in the Army, and at least ruining one happy marriage—yeah, sounds like a problem,” I sighed for affect, then stood up, “But I knew that before I came in here,” I moved to the door, “Thanks, Father,”

I didn’t give him time to respond. I got out of his tent, taking a deep breathe of fresh air, having the same feeling I used to get when I was dragged to church as a kid. Incense so thick you could barely breath, forced to wear uncomfortable church clothes, unable to say a word just so the priest can keep being boring uninterrupted. After Mom died Dad and I stopped going to church though. Can’t say I miss it.

A blast of cold wind made me wrap my arms around myself, hastening to get back to the Swamp, but not before running right into Beej.

“Beej,”

“Hawk,”

“Hi,”

“Hi,”

“Were you coming from Father Mulcahy’s tent?”

“Sure looked like it,”

“You never talk to Father Mulcahy,” he said certainly, then paused, narrowing his eyes, talking a half step closer, exclaiming in a loud whisper, “Wait—you told him?!”

“Are you really so paranoid?” I responded, wrapping my collar tighter around my neck, “I don’t particularly like the idea of outing myself to the whole camp,” I started walking, “And you know what a talker Mulcahy is,”

He followed me, “I can be paranoid about this,” he said defensively, “I’ve been so jumpy lately I almost dropped my scalpel in surgery today,” he caught the door of the Swamp as I went inside. After a few steps he stopped to stand awkwardly in the middle of the tent. I stared at him. He must have realized this was the most he’d talked to me, cohesively anyway, since last night. His blue eyes met mine for a moment, then looked away quickly as he took a deep breath, “So, if you didn’t tell him, what did you talk about?”

I sighed, lying down on my bed, feeling exhausted. All those hours in surgery, then to top it off I get my soul kicked around by outdated religious dogma, all in time for a horrible dinner. I closed my eyes against a pounding headache, throwing an arm over my eyes, “I told him,”

“What?!”

“He’s a priest, BJ, he can’t tell anyone, don’t worry about it,”

“But he knows,”

“Beej, it’s not like we have to sit around waiting for the foot to drop,”

“But you told him!”

“I think we already went over this,”

“Hawk, this—that—whatever happened—it’s really—,”

I lifted my arm from over my eyes and propped myself up on my elbows, throwing a confused look in his direction. He stopped stammering, closing his eyes to concentrate on what he was saying, raising one hand to signal each word, “I’ve never lived anywhere but California,”

Again, a confused look.

“I never saw a real pine tree until I went to Christmas at Peg’s parent’s house in Washington,”

I waited for him to keep talking. I was worried anything I’d say would make him run away. Best solution in these situations is to just keep my mouth shut.

And I didn’t want him to leave . . . besides the horrible working conditions and even worse food, he was all I had. I wasn’t alone in Korea. I wasn’t alone.

“I’d only seen pictures,” he said. He moved to sit in the chair by the still, looking over at me intermittently. He sighed, letting his head fall back on the chair, “This is so much bigger than a pine tree,” He lifted his head to look over at me, eye’s not turning away this time, searching mine in the shadows of the Swamp, “I can’t hate you, Hawk. I can’t. I can’t even stay mad at you,” he closed his eyes, shaking his head as he bit his lower lip, “I can’t do this without you,”

My throat tightened but I swallowed it back, cot creaking as I sat up, “Good thing I’m here then,”

Beej stood up. So did I. We stood facing each other in the middle of the Swamp, neither moving. He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck self-consciously.

I could make the first move.

He could.

Maybe he doesn’t want to even hug.

Which is what he was thinking right?

Maybe we’ll end up standing here for hours just staring at each other.

This is stupid. I dropped my arms from my pockets and took the quarter step there was forward, wrapping both of my arms around Beej. With a sigh he met me halfway, leaning into me, his arms almost too tight.

He fits perfectly in my arms, I thought dreamily, like he was meant to be there. I closed my eyes, breathing in his smell. He loosened his hold, allowing me to breathe, running a hand up and down my back before pulling back.

“Then I guess it’s together then,” he said with a nervous smile, “We’ll do this together,”

Do what? Huh?, I thought, a questioning look poised on my face as Frank suddenly came through the door, not giving me a chance to ask BJ what he meant.

We both turned, raising our hands in greeting.

“Hi, Frank,” I said.

“How’s it going?” Beej asked.

“You guys are hopeless,” Frank scowled, glowering at us before all but clasping on his bed with a dramatic sigh.

“Something wrong, Frank?” I asked, absolutely uninterested. Beej gave me a why-the-hell-did-you-ask-him look and retreated to his cot.

“It’s classified,” Frank responded snidely, sharply tugging out the laces of his boots.

“Classified? Like when you started an investigation into where all our condiments were going,”

“On our food, turns out,” Beej commented from his cot.

“Or tornado-proofing the tents,”

“Secret spy dogs,”

“No, this was very important,” he shouted, anger flashing in his beady eyes, “I was trying to talk to Potter about the shower situation,”

Beej and I shared a look.

“The showers get overly slippery,” Frank explained smugly, sitting back up after lining his boots up at perfect angles by his footlocker, “I was going to ask him about the possible examination and subsequent refit of the showers safety parameters,”

“You really take your life in your hands,” Beej said.

“A bar of soap fell on the floor last time and I thought I was done for,”

“You guys! This is serious!” he screwed his mouth into a displeased line, “What I mean is, it would be prudent, as an efficient unit to have safety ropes in the showers,”

I couldn’t help laughing, “A safety rope?” I repeated as Beej laughed in the background.

“That’s right,” Frank said, glancing over in Beej’s direction, dejected, “That way if someone slips they have something to hold on to,”

“That sounds—”

“Brilliant,” Beej finished.

“Well it would’ve been if I had actually gotten in to see Potter,” he took a breath that puffed up his chest, a glare settling over his pale brow, “But no, Father Mulcahy gets to go first,” he stood up, unbuttoning his shirt with a shake of his head, “I was there first but he insisted on talking to Potter right away. Something about someone in camp, or something,” he finished vaguely. I heard Beej stop laughing. The smile falls from my face slowly, “I mean, what could have been so important?”

“Safety ropes?” I offered.

Frank glared at me, weariness showing in his face, “I have the right to make suggestions,” he said. Without saying anything else Frank lapsed into silence. He was good at ignoring us. He could block everything else out. Like his mind was a place he could retreat to and close the door behind him. He must have learned how to do it somewhere along the lines. Maybe something made him have to. Unfortunately, Frank would never accept any sympathy from me. Even if I meant it.

I leaned back on my cot, enough to see Beej sitting cross legged, blankets over his feet. He looked worried. Very worried. But he insisted on talking to Potter first, Frank had said. About what? More importantly, why did he want to talk to him now—right after talking to me? I would have liked to ask Frank more about it. There had to be some way I could find out what Mulcahy was talking to Potter about. Would he tell Potter about me? And what had Beej meant by together. Was I just being stupid thinking he meant together together?

The wind howled outside our tent. Beej had lain down, and after a few more minutes Frank turned off his light. I knew Beej was tired enough to just fall asleep. But me? I needed to figure out what was going on. After about ten minutes, I swung my legs over the side of my bed, trying to be quiet. Maybe I could get close enough to hear. Maybe I could talk with Radar. I got up, looking back once at Beej lying under his blankets. I stood a moment at the door of the Swamp, one hand on the door, gazing at him silently.

I didn’t care what happened to me. Just as long as he wasn’t hurt by it. I lowered my eyes finally and pushed out the door, Beej’s sleeping face imprinted in my mind, somehow giving me strength. As I walked across the compound, the night sky stretching out above me, my mind inescapably wandered from me protecting Beej, to something like a life with him after the army, living together, being together. I knew it would never happen. But I love him.

I hoped they were still in there. And if not, Radar could help. It was a brilliant plan. It was a terrible plan. But it was all I had.