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mash_slashTitle: Kitten Rainbow Sunshine Sex.
Characters/Pairing: BJ, Hawkeye.
Rating: PG13.
Summary: it's in all the little wars that you survived. together.
AN: for megsy, i hope it makes you smile.
It’s not always about being stuck. Sometimes it was choosing who to be stuck with.
There’s a click, or a clunk, and definitely a snigger; Frank Burns’ hyperventilated giggle.
They’re locked in, with no-one around to save them; a forty hour day has been and gone, and everyone is someone else now. Their heads are buried deep in the sand of booze or poker or sex.
Hawkeye slumps down onto a crate, a heavy, defeated noise. Drama.
“You’re giving up. I can’t believe you’re giving up.”
“I’d give down, but I don’t know how.”
“No-o!” BJ grips at the handle, trying to shake the door off its hinges but pulling the knob free instead. A screw rolls across to Hawkeye who’s wild with hysteria, laughing; a too-big character in a badly written comic strip.
“Oh, sure, laugh now,” BJ grumbles, pushing his nose against the door. “Igor’s out there scrambling eggs that were laid this morning and toasting bread that wasn’t baked in 1931.”
Hawkeye shuts up, fast. “He what?”
“I was going to share them with you. Pretty funny, huh?”
Hawkeye jumps to his feet, to the rescue, Timmy’s fallen down the well. He takes a running start and throws himself against the door. Shock, horror, it doesn’t work. He straightens himself out, tries again. On the third attempt he comes to the hardest conclusion: he’s not Superman.
Hawkeye pushes his hair back and turns to BJ. “Why,” he says calmly, “Are you in here?”
“I was helping you!”
“You volunteered.”
BJ shakes his head. Unbelievable. “Margeret was sick; I was doing you both a favour.”
“And what’s Radar, chopped liver?”
“Mean. A short stack, at least.”
Hawkeye’s back’s against the door and he slides down, spaghetti against the wall. Undercooked, underwhelming. “Fresh Eggs,” he says, in a whisper.
“Soft, crispy toast,” BJ adds, settling down beside him.
“We’re going to die in here.”
“We’re Jack Griffin. No-one will ever find us and eventually we’ll go mad.”
“I can’t believe you volunteered to help with inventory.”
BJ twists around, his back creaks. “You’re blaming me? Who was the one who put molasses in Frank’s jockey shorts?”
“Me? Who sewed up the foot holes in all his trousers?”
“You’ve been here longer; you’ve built up a bigger bill.”
“You’re inexperienced. He always goes for the weaker ones.”
“I’m weaker than Frank Burns?”
Hawkeye grinning now. If he’s going to be stuck in here he might as well have some light entertainment. He’s thrown his rod in and the fish are quickly biting. “Slower, maybe.”
“Than Frank Burns?”
“I’ve seen you use nose hair clippers, don’t try and argue!”
Outside, Nurse Cutler knocks hesitantly on the door. Are you okay in there?
It’s going to be a long night.
It’s not always what you remember. Sometimes, it was in what you forgot.
“I have a date!” Hawkeye exclaims, pulling up his socks and straightening out his hair. BJ’s two seconds shy from dead; twelve hours too long in O.R. He flops down on his cot, lets the chips fall where they may.
“I don’t believe it.”
“I wooed her with my metaphors.”
BJ curls in on himself, foetal position and facing Hawkeye. “Potato?”
“Pudding.”
“Right. ‘Women are like pudding,’” BJ quotes, mumbles, his mouth his sore, same as everything. “‘Sweet, inviting, but if they’re left alone too long they go cold.’”
Hawkeye shakes his head, as if he can’t believe his ears. “I’m amazing. Truly amazing.”
“What’s amazing is these women’s self loathing.”
“Honey, that stings a little.”
BJ struggles to sit upright, a half mast flag desperate for wind. He’s so tired and bothered that he’s over all of this; over Hawkeye, too. “They should be declaring war on you. They should be sharpening your pick up lines for battle.”
“Blasphemy. They’re already sharp.”
“Have you thought of showing a little respect? You worked well today, you look nice today, how are you feeling today?”
“We can’t all be husbands.” BJ scoffs, without a word, but probably with plenty to say. Hawkeye reads between the lines, he’s heard enough Mill Valley letters to see, You got that right. “You think I’m shameful.”
“I never said that.” BJ’s expression is hidden behind his surgery gown, up over his head and thrown onto the floor. Hawkeye scooches over on his cot, peers at BJ with squinted eyes, with suspicion.
“You think your best friend is shameful.”
BJ pulls a face. “Shameless, maybe.”
“Shameful. I can see it in your eyes.” Hawkeye stands, leans in, and widens BJ’s eyelids with two fingers. Lashes, iris, pupil, shameful. “It’s there, behind ‘Houlihan has great thighs’.”
“Okay, now you’re just making things up.” BJ throws a towel over one shoulder and half heartedly slips on his boots. He’s up on his feet and towards the door, Hawkeye hot on his trail. The Shadow knows.
“I saw it! Next to, ‘Klinger looks good as a nurse.’”
“I thought you had somewhere to be?”
“And I thought we were best friends. Shows what I know.”
Hawkeye follows BJ to the showers, follows him in, won’t give up ‘til BJ plasters the crack. Preservation, mostly: they can’t afford to break.
[Hawkeye’s date goes cold.]
It’s not always about being saved. Sometimes it was in getting lost.
“I told you to take a right! Remember when I said take a right? That’s when you should have taken a right.”
“Let’s worry about the fact that I’m on top of someone’s To-Do-Harm-To list.”
They’re huddled together behind the jeep; it stands firm, protects, in spite of the few extra bullet holes and old war horse tires. The map’s half faded from Frank; from his insistence that they were vulnerable to attack and his fifty-man venture to barricade the entrances. Dying soldiers be damned.
“We need to go back.”
“Where’s ‘back’, Napoleon? I say we forge ahead. Fight.”
“Fight?”
Hawkeye shrugs. “We’ll have a bake off.”
“You can’t cook.”
“Are you kidding? I’m cooking right now.”
BJ pops his head around the back of the jeep, helmet fallen over one eye, assessing the road behind them. “If we go back we’ll find that village we passed. We can ask for directions, and be back on our way.”
“Please. I’m a man. We don’t ask for directions. Even if it is in another language.”
“Is that why you can’t find your own pyjamas?” BJ mutters under his worn out breath.
Hawkeye grabs the shoulder of BJ’s shirt, shaking him, no heat, just rattling the tin to see what’s inside. “I knew it! I knew you were still angry about the pyjamas.”
“They were brand new!” BJ snaps, twisting around, despite the stones digging into his hands, the grazes on his knees, despite where they are. When they’re like this - when they’re fighting - they’re nowhere, anyway.
“It was an accident!”
“No, an accident is when you don’t get to the toilet in time. They were in pieces!”
Hawkeye sighs, defeated. “I’ll get you a new pair of pyjamas, Van Winkle.”
“They won’t be the same,” BJ gripes, and sounds like a petulant child. “I wore them in. They fit to my specifications.”
“When I buy them I’ll tell the store person you’re tall, dark and smug.”
“Ooh, don’t even think y - ” There’s sniper fire, a trail of shells over head, and they cling to each other. Buoys, in a sea of pending doom. “I think we disturbed the neighbours.”
“Right. I drive, you ask directions.”
Hawkeye clunks the jeep into reverse and heads back where they came from.
It won’t be the first time they’ve had to start over.
-end-
Characters/Pairing: BJ, Hawkeye.
Rating: PG13.
Summary: it's in all the little wars that you survived. together.
AN: for megsy, i hope it makes you smile.
It’s not always about being stuck. Sometimes it was choosing who to be stuck with.
There’s a click, or a clunk, and definitely a snigger; Frank Burns’ hyperventilated giggle.
They’re locked in, with no-one around to save them; a forty hour day has been and gone, and everyone is someone else now. Their heads are buried deep in the sand of booze or poker or sex.
Hawkeye slumps down onto a crate, a heavy, defeated noise. Drama.
“You’re giving up. I can’t believe you’re giving up.”
“I’d give down, but I don’t know how.”
“No-o!” BJ grips at the handle, trying to shake the door off its hinges but pulling the knob free instead. A screw rolls across to Hawkeye who’s wild with hysteria, laughing; a too-big character in a badly written comic strip.
“Oh, sure, laugh now,” BJ grumbles, pushing his nose against the door. “Igor’s out there scrambling eggs that were laid this morning and toasting bread that wasn’t baked in 1931.”
Hawkeye shuts up, fast. “He what?”
“I was going to share them with you. Pretty funny, huh?”
Hawkeye jumps to his feet, to the rescue, Timmy’s fallen down the well. He takes a running start and throws himself against the door. Shock, horror, it doesn’t work. He straightens himself out, tries again. On the third attempt he comes to the hardest conclusion: he’s not Superman.
Hawkeye pushes his hair back and turns to BJ. “Why,” he says calmly, “Are you in here?”
“I was helping you!”
“You volunteered.”
BJ shakes his head. Unbelievable. “Margeret was sick; I was doing you both a favour.”
“And what’s Radar, chopped liver?”
“Mean. A short stack, at least.”
Hawkeye’s back’s against the door and he slides down, spaghetti against the wall. Undercooked, underwhelming. “Fresh Eggs,” he says, in a whisper.
“Soft, crispy toast,” BJ adds, settling down beside him.
“We’re going to die in here.”
“We’re Jack Griffin. No-one will ever find us and eventually we’ll go mad.”
“I can’t believe you volunteered to help with inventory.”
BJ twists around, his back creaks. “You’re blaming me? Who was the one who put molasses in Frank’s jockey shorts?”
“Me? Who sewed up the foot holes in all his trousers?”
“You’ve been here longer; you’ve built up a bigger bill.”
“You’re inexperienced. He always goes for the weaker ones.”
“I’m weaker than Frank Burns?”
Hawkeye grinning now. If he’s going to be stuck in here he might as well have some light entertainment. He’s thrown his rod in and the fish are quickly biting. “Slower, maybe.”
“Than Frank Burns?”
“I’ve seen you use nose hair clippers, don’t try and argue!”
Outside, Nurse Cutler knocks hesitantly on the door. Are you okay in there?
It’s going to be a long night.
It’s not always what you remember. Sometimes, it was in what you forgot.
“I have a date!” Hawkeye exclaims, pulling up his socks and straightening out his hair. BJ’s two seconds shy from dead; twelve hours too long in O.R. He flops down on his cot, lets the chips fall where they may.
“I don’t believe it.”
“I wooed her with my metaphors.”
BJ curls in on himself, foetal position and facing Hawkeye. “Potato?”
“Pudding.”
“Right. ‘Women are like pudding,’” BJ quotes, mumbles, his mouth his sore, same as everything. “‘Sweet, inviting, but if they’re left alone too long they go cold.’”
Hawkeye shakes his head, as if he can’t believe his ears. “I’m amazing. Truly amazing.”
“What’s amazing is these women’s self loathing.”
“Honey, that stings a little.”
BJ struggles to sit upright, a half mast flag desperate for wind. He’s so tired and bothered that he’s over all of this; over Hawkeye, too. “They should be declaring war on you. They should be sharpening your pick up lines for battle.”
“Blasphemy. They’re already sharp.”
“Have you thought of showing a little respect? You worked well today, you look nice today, how are you feeling today?”
“We can’t all be husbands.” BJ scoffs, without a word, but probably with plenty to say. Hawkeye reads between the lines, he’s heard enough Mill Valley letters to see, You got that right. “You think I’m shameful.”
“I never said that.” BJ’s expression is hidden behind his surgery gown, up over his head and thrown onto the floor. Hawkeye scooches over on his cot, peers at BJ with squinted eyes, with suspicion.
“You think your best friend is shameful.”
BJ pulls a face. “Shameless, maybe.”
“Shameful. I can see it in your eyes.” Hawkeye stands, leans in, and widens BJ’s eyelids with two fingers. Lashes, iris, pupil, shameful. “It’s there, behind ‘Houlihan has great thighs’.”
“Okay, now you’re just making things up.” BJ throws a towel over one shoulder and half heartedly slips on his boots. He’s up on his feet and towards the door, Hawkeye hot on his trail. The Shadow knows.
“I saw it! Next to, ‘Klinger looks good as a nurse.’”
“I thought you had somewhere to be?”
“And I thought we were best friends. Shows what I know.”
Hawkeye follows BJ to the showers, follows him in, won’t give up ‘til BJ plasters the crack. Preservation, mostly: they can’t afford to break.
[Hawkeye’s date goes cold.]
It’s not always about being saved. Sometimes it was in getting lost.
“I told you to take a right! Remember when I said take a right? That’s when you should have taken a right.”
“Let’s worry about the fact that I’m on top of someone’s To-Do-Harm-To list.”
They’re huddled together behind the jeep; it stands firm, protects, in spite of the few extra bullet holes and old war horse tires. The map’s half faded from Frank; from his insistence that they were vulnerable to attack and his fifty-man venture to barricade the entrances. Dying soldiers be damned.
“We need to go back.”
“Where’s ‘back’, Napoleon? I say we forge ahead. Fight.”
“Fight?”
Hawkeye shrugs. “We’ll have a bake off.”
“You can’t cook.”
“Are you kidding? I’m cooking right now.”
BJ pops his head around the back of the jeep, helmet fallen over one eye, assessing the road behind them. “If we go back we’ll find that village we passed. We can ask for directions, and be back on our way.”
“Please. I’m a man. We don’t ask for directions. Even if it is in another language.”
“Is that why you can’t find your own pyjamas?” BJ mutters under his worn out breath.
Hawkeye grabs the shoulder of BJ’s shirt, shaking him, no heat, just rattling the tin to see what’s inside. “I knew it! I knew you were still angry about the pyjamas.”
“They were brand new!” BJ snaps, twisting around, despite the stones digging into his hands, the grazes on his knees, despite where they are. When they’re like this - when they’re fighting - they’re nowhere, anyway.
“It was an accident!”
“No, an accident is when you don’t get to the toilet in time. They were in pieces!”
Hawkeye sighs, defeated. “I’ll get you a new pair of pyjamas, Van Winkle.”
“They won’t be the same,” BJ gripes, and sounds like a petulant child. “I wore them in. They fit to my specifications.”
“When I buy them I’ll tell the store person you’re tall, dark and smug.”
“Ooh, don’t even think y - ” There’s sniper fire, a trail of shells over head, and they cling to each other. Buoys, in a sea of pending doom. “I think we disturbed the neighbours.”
“Right. I drive, you ask directions.”
Hawkeye clunks the jeep into reverse and heads back where they came from.
It won’t be the first time they’ve had to start over.
-end-
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