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mash_slashTitle: Foosball
Author: the_suitcase, with thanks to my sister for unknowingly supplying me with inspiration.
Pairing: (slight) BJ/Hawkeye
Rating: PGish
Disclaimer: I don't own anything in this story, not even the foosball table.
Note: This isn't beta-ed, and it's the first thing I've written. I think I got all the grammar, foosball details, etc. right. Yell at me if I screwed up.
"You can't do that! That's cheating!" Hawkeye yelled. BJ smiled and changed the score on the foosball table to read 7-1.
"Where did Klinger get this thing, anyway?" BJ asked, ignoring Hawkeye.
"One can only dream from where that Lebanese leach scrounged up a game even more juvenile than real soccer," Charles said as he walked in the door of the Officer's club. He sat down and ordered a cognac.
"Charles, foosball is a game of masterful skill, requiring quick reflexes and strong wrists--dammit! Beej, you can't do that!"
"It's a perfectly legitimate move, Hawk," BJ said, suppressing a grin. "You might want to stop talking while you play, though."
"Pierce, in no game requiring any sort of masterful skill is it possible for Hunnicutt to excel. Hah!" Charles laughed as he watched BJ's miniature soccer player knock the ball past Hawkeye's goaltender for the ninth time. Hawkeye's face turned red with anger, matching the plastic faces of his own team.
"Ok, ok, time out, "Hawkeye said, taking a sip of his drink. He walked over to the table in the corner where Col. Potter and Father Mulcahy were engaged in a game of checkers.
"Bumblebee biscuits! That's four in a row!"
Mulcahy chuckled. He was about to make some joke about priests and board games when Hawkeye interrupted him. "Ah, checkers. A straightforward game, basic enough that not even the sneakiest of bunkmates could find a way to cheat," he snorted and shot a glare back toward the foosball table; BJ answered with an innocent look of "who, me?"
"You and Hunnicutt fighting again?" Potter asked as he finished his whiskey.
"Yes, is everything all right between you two?" Mulcahy chimed in.
"Everything's fine,” Hawkeye took the empty seat at the table, "he's just a dirty rotten cheater!"
BJ countered, "Dirty and rotten may describe my laundry, but only my socks cheat. And, actually, they're your socks."
Hawkeye dragged Col. Potter over to the foosball table and instructed him to watch BJ's offense. Hawkeye was silent in concentration as he dropped the ball into the slot on the side of the table. The ball rolled straight to BJ's secondary offensive line. He wasted no time flipping it past Hawkeye to the row of offensive players in front of the goal. With a quick flick of his wrist, BJ then directed the ball sideways from the table soccer player on the far end of its pole to the one in the middle. In one single motion, the center offense man took control of the ball and fired it past Hawkeye's defensemen and goalie for an easy win of 10-1.
"I believe you owe me a drink," BJ smiled, folding his arms across his chest and casually rocking back and forth on his heels. "Igor, I'll take a scotch. Make it a double and put it on Hawkeye's tab."
Hawkeye protested to Col. Potter, "see? He's breaking the sacred unspoken rule of foosballing. And look how he keeps his hands on his two offense things at all times. Everyone knows you keep one hand on the goalie and the other on offense. Otherwise it's not even," he walked over to the other side of the table and pushed BJ out of the way to demonstrate.
"I don't know, Pierce, Hunnicutt's move looks perfectly legal. Tricky, but legal." Potter said, slapping BJ on the shoulder. "Look, son," Potter said, addressing Hawkeye while setting the scorekeepers back to zero, "he beat you fair and square. Now if you boys don't mind, me and the padre have a score to settle. You're welcome to watch. You too, Hunnicutt, especially if you wish to share some of your expertise."
BJ shrugged. "I stink at defense. I have to make up for what I lack in blocking with my ability to score."
Hawkeye slammed a couple crumpled bills on the bar and stormed out the door. "Now if he was only like that in bed," he thought to himself on the way back to the swamp.
Author: the_suitcase, with thanks to my sister for unknowingly supplying me with inspiration.
Pairing: (slight) BJ/Hawkeye
Rating: PGish
Disclaimer: I don't own anything in this story, not even the foosball table.
Note: This isn't beta-ed, and it's the first thing I've written. I think I got all the grammar, foosball details, etc. right. Yell at me if I screwed up.
"You can't do that! That's cheating!" Hawkeye yelled. BJ smiled and changed the score on the foosball table to read 7-1.
"Where did Klinger get this thing, anyway?" BJ asked, ignoring Hawkeye.
"One can only dream from where that Lebanese leach scrounged up a game even more juvenile than real soccer," Charles said as he walked in the door of the Officer's club. He sat down and ordered a cognac.
"Charles, foosball is a game of masterful skill, requiring quick reflexes and strong wrists--dammit! Beej, you can't do that!"
"It's a perfectly legitimate move, Hawk," BJ said, suppressing a grin. "You might want to stop talking while you play, though."
"Pierce, in no game requiring any sort of masterful skill is it possible for Hunnicutt to excel. Hah!" Charles laughed as he watched BJ's miniature soccer player knock the ball past Hawkeye's goaltender for the ninth time. Hawkeye's face turned red with anger, matching the plastic faces of his own team.
"Ok, ok, time out, "Hawkeye said, taking a sip of his drink. He walked over to the table in the corner where Col. Potter and Father Mulcahy were engaged in a game of checkers.
"Bumblebee biscuits! That's four in a row!"
Mulcahy chuckled. He was about to make some joke about priests and board games when Hawkeye interrupted him. "Ah, checkers. A straightforward game, basic enough that not even the sneakiest of bunkmates could find a way to cheat," he snorted and shot a glare back toward the foosball table; BJ answered with an innocent look of "who, me?"
"You and Hunnicutt fighting again?" Potter asked as he finished his whiskey.
"Yes, is everything all right between you two?" Mulcahy chimed in.
"Everything's fine,” Hawkeye took the empty seat at the table, "he's just a dirty rotten cheater!"
BJ countered, "Dirty and rotten may describe my laundry, but only my socks cheat. And, actually, they're your socks."
Hawkeye dragged Col. Potter over to the foosball table and instructed him to watch BJ's offense. Hawkeye was silent in concentration as he dropped the ball into the slot on the side of the table. The ball rolled straight to BJ's secondary offensive line. He wasted no time flipping it past Hawkeye to the row of offensive players in front of the goal. With a quick flick of his wrist, BJ then directed the ball sideways from the table soccer player on the far end of its pole to the one in the middle. In one single motion, the center offense man took control of the ball and fired it past Hawkeye's defensemen and goalie for an easy win of 10-1.
"I believe you owe me a drink," BJ smiled, folding his arms across his chest and casually rocking back and forth on his heels. "Igor, I'll take a scotch. Make it a double and put it on Hawkeye's tab."
Hawkeye protested to Col. Potter, "see? He's breaking the sacred unspoken rule of foosballing. And look how he keeps his hands on his two offense things at all times. Everyone knows you keep one hand on the goalie and the other on offense. Otherwise it's not even," he walked over to the other side of the table and pushed BJ out of the way to demonstrate.
"I don't know, Pierce, Hunnicutt's move looks perfectly legal. Tricky, but legal." Potter said, slapping BJ on the shoulder. "Look, son," Potter said, addressing Hawkeye while setting the scorekeepers back to zero, "he beat you fair and square. Now if you boys don't mind, me and the padre have a score to settle. You're welcome to watch. You too, Hunnicutt, especially if you wish to share some of your expertise."
BJ shrugged. "I stink at defense. I have to make up for what I lack in blocking with my ability to score."
Hawkeye slammed a couple crumpled bills on the bar and stormed out the door. "Now if he was only like that in bed," he thought to himself on the way back to the swamp.
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