Christmas drabble
Dec. 18th, 2007 10:29 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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mash_slashI come bearing a little Christmas BJxHawkeye drabble. Nothing much, just something that gnawed at me until I finished it this evening. Inspired loosely by the song by the same name.
I hope everyone is having a lovely Christmas thus far, and even more so, I hold to the hope that some day, Christmas won't be spent on battlegrounds.
I'll Be Home for Christmas.
Pairing: BJ/Hawkeye
Rating: G
Word count: 423
I’ll Be Home for Christmas
Disclaimer: I don't own any of the following characters etc.
Charles asked him what he thought he was doing, and questioned once more if he had finally gone entirely mad. He flippantly replied that it was cold outside Charles, thank you very much, and after all, it was Christmas Eve. To that the other man had very little to say, and it was with what might have almost been a smile that he bade them goodnight and meandered from the tent, eyes skyward and tracking the gently falling snow.
Hawkeye took that as his cue to wriggle down onto his lover’s bed and beneath the thin, scratchy blankets, curling their legs together and burying his face in a warm, sturdy chest. A hand fell sleepily about his waist, and a kiss warmed his forehead briefly, as they took a dangerous but much needed liberty.
It wasn’t Crabapple Cove. The snow was not banking prettily upon tree-covered slopes, frosting up the lake and windowpanes. His father was not handing him a bowl of popcorn to thread onto flimsy strings, to be draped from a fat, needle-spilling tree. Children weren’t frolicking in the streets, ignoring the calls of their ever attentive yet festive parents, and a turkey wasn’t roasting away cheerily in the kitchen.
It was a narrow, rickety cot, with thin rough sheets, and an uncontrollably messy tent, with a pitiful, sad scrap of tinsel wound around the stove, and a star made out of scalpels displayed proudly on their make shift wooden door.
It was a dusty, dishevelled little MASH unit, with blood stained boot prints tramped into slushy mud, and a few shrivelled potted plants lined up along the walls of the OR, doing their darndest to warm the darkest, most long forgotten hearts.
It was him, and it was BJ, curled together in the rickety little cot; assured by a friend that for one night, for this night, they need not concern themselves with the danger of being caught or seen or punished. It was a group of rag tag, tired men and women, putting aside fears and differences and heartaches to endeavour to make one another happy on this night of nights.
BJ stroked his cheek and tilted their faces together, and smiled at him. Merry Christmas, they whispered in unison, lips brushing gently.
It wasn’t Crabapple Cove, and it certainly wasn’t something out of a carol. But it didn’t matter that it wasn’t necessarily home, as it was love and it was hope and it was a glimpse of rare peace, and beyond all reckoning, it was beautiful. Christmas.
I hope everyone is having a lovely Christmas thus far, and even more so, I hold to the hope that some day, Christmas won't be spent on battlegrounds.
I'll Be Home for Christmas.
Pairing: BJ/Hawkeye
Rating: G
Word count: 423
I’ll Be Home for Christmas
Disclaimer: I don't own any of the following characters etc.
Charles asked him what he thought he was doing, and questioned once more if he had finally gone entirely mad. He flippantly replied that it was cold outside Charles, thank you very much, and after all, it was Christmas Eve. To that the other man had very little to say, and it was with what might have almost been a smile that he bade them goodnight and meandered from the tent, eyes skyward and tracking the gently falling snow.
Hawkeye took that as his cue to wriggle down onto his lover’s bed and beneath the thin, scratchy blankets, curling their legs together and burying his face in a warm, sturdy chest. A hand fell sleepily about his waist, and a kiss warmed his forehead briefly, as they took a dangerous but much needed liberty.
It wasn’t Crabapple Cove. The snow was not banking prettily upon tree-covered slopes, frosting up the lake and windowpanes. His father was not handing him a bowl of popcorn to thread onto flimsy strings, to be draped from a fat, needle-spilling tree. Children weren’t frolicking in the streets, ignoring the calls of their ever attentive yet festive parents, and a turkey wasn’t roasting away cheerily in the kitchen.
It was a narrow, rickety cot, with thin rough sheets, and an uncontrollably messy tent, with a pitiful, sad scrap of tinsel wound around the stove, and a star made out of scalpels displayed proudly on their make shift wooden door.
It was a dusty, dishevelled little MASH unit, with blood stained boot prints tramped into slushy mud, and a few shrivelled potted plants lined up along the walls of the OR, doing their darndest to warm the darkest, most long forgotten hearts.
It was him, and it was BJ, curled together in the rickety little cot; assured by a friend that for one night, for this night, they need not concern themselves with the danger of being caught or seen or punished. It was a group of rag tag, tired men and women, putting aside fears and differences and heartaches to endeavour to make one another happy on this night of nights.
BJ stroked his cheek and tilted their faces together, and smiled at him. Merry Christmas, they whispered in unison, lips brushing gently.
It wasn’t Crabapple Cove, and it certainly wasn’t something out of a carol. But it didn’t matter that it wasn’t necessarily home, as it was love and it was hope and it was a glimpse of rare peace, and beyond all reckoning, it was beautiful. Christmas.
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