Work Text:
A month after Hawkeye's return from Korea, he gets a letter from Mill Valley. Inside is a picture of B.J. and a little girl, an address for a hotel in San Francisco, and a handwritten poem. Hawkeye recognizes the script immediately, and the poem, too. He sits on his kitchen floor and cries a bit after reading it. When he flips it over and finds the letter on the back, he gives himself just a little more time to cry before he packs his stuff.
---
“Are you picking up nines?”
Dr. Freedman smiled. “Not anymore. I fold,”
“Same,” Klinger said, dropping his cards with a flick. “I’ve gotta be cursed or something,”
“Give me, um, two more,” Radar placed two cards on the table and rubbed his eyes under his glasses.
“The Owl and the Pussycat went to sea in a beautiful pea-green boat,” Hawk nursed his drink and read over his cards, his eyes more droopy than usual. “I’m in, I raise two.”
“They took some honey and plenty of money wrapped up in a five-pound note. Gimme a new card,” B.J. said, dropping his three of diamonds and picking up a new card, a jack. Still no good. “What’s after that, Hawk?”
“Oh B.J., it’s the best part. The owl looked up to the stars above, and sang with a small guitar,” Hawkeye smiled widely and closed his eyes. “Oh Pussy, oh Pussy, oh Pussy, my love, what a beautiful pussy you are, you are! What a beautiful pussy you are!”
The table echoed with laughter, and Radar turned a bright pink under the lamp. After he had calmed his laughter, B.J. realized his hands had dropped forward and his hand was bleeding, and Klinger was saying something to him. He laughed again and folded, dropping his cards and letting Hawk win the pot. He deserved it anyway.
“Isn’t there more to it, Hawk?” he asked.
“Oh yeah, two more stanzas. But they don’t reach the heights of the first. The owl and pussy settle down and get married, runcible spoon, the light of the moon, the moon, the moon!”
Hawk smiled again, his eyes barely open but settled on B.J. B.J. felt Hawkeye must have some undiscovered gene that forced anyone around him to return his smiles. He could never stop his face from splitting when Hawkeye was happy.
---
Hawkeye and B.J. were getting ready for an early morning shift, B.J. groaning with the weight of the boots on his feet. It was a cold winter morning, and B.J. had taken shift the night before for an emergency appendectomy, an operation that seemed to be disproportionately needed during a war. Hawk was pulling on his jackets and leaning out the door with one boot on, a smile on his face. Potter had let him sleep through the night.
"Beej, it's a beautiful morning," He said, deeply sniffing before coming back in the Swamp and sitting on his bed to put on his other shoe. "The smells of dust and dirt are fresh on the air."
B.J. nodded, a bit annoyed but not enough to refuse a Hawkeye Talk. A Talkeye. He should save that and use it later.
"Sleep well, Hawkeye?" B.J. asked.
"Yes," Hawk pushed off his bed and out the door, smiling brightly. From the other side of the screen, he heard Hawk say, "Oh, the sun comes up-up-up in the opening sky, the all the any merry every pretty each birds sings birds sings gay-be-gay because today's today!"
B.J., shuffling only a little bit, followed him out the door. "Who’s that?"
"Try a guess. I’ll give you a hint, even. He hates dotting his periods."
"Cummings?"
"Right on the nose, B.J. my dear." Hawk turned to smile at him. "My dad sent over some typed copies of his poems. He was my favorite. My dad doesn't really get him, which just makes the copied poems mean that much more."
"He's never really floated my boat either, honestly."
Hawkeye stopped B.J. with an arm, bringing his other hand over his chest. "Oh, Beej, you wound me."
"I like stuff that rhymes. And anyway, we don’t have to always like the same poets," B.J. said, his smile at Hawkeye coloring his words.
"I know that in theory, but it makes me feel better about my taste when someone like you agrees with me."
"Someone like me?"
Hawk smiled crookedly. "A good apple."
"Isn't the phrase a good egg?"
"You're rarer than an egg. Just observe the state of our mess tent's breakfasts."
They stepped in the mess, each grabbing a tray.
“Your dad a poetry guy too?”
“Oh no, dad’s an adventure guy. Last of the Mohicans, remember? Very like you, Beej. I saw the Verne book you’ve got.”
“I like that book. Your dad’s a kindred spirit.” They set their so-called meals down and then sat on benches facing one another. “So how’d you get to be a poetry guy?”
“My mom, I think. I found a poetry book in my house when I was a kid. Byron.”
“She walks in beauty?”
“Yeah,” Hawk smiles. “For a while, I thought it was something my dad had written to her. I was pretty small, didn’t really get the concept of published collections of poetry. When I got older and learned to read cursive, I could understand the inscription. ‘To my darling, I may not understand your passion, but I hope you enjoy yourself. Daniel’,” Hawk scooped up some eggs then dropped them back to his tray. “See what I mean? You’re made of richer stuff than this.”
“Why Cummings?”
“His words both make sense and don’t and the way they’re typed is interesting to the eyes. And, he’s got some good stuff about sex. And I just like him, he's funny.”
“Any more eloquent phrases to come to his defense?”
“Can it. I’m not a critic, I’m an admirer. He’s fun and romantic. He’s an all-around good-feeling-spreader!”
“Nurse, good feeling spreader, double-quick.”
“Yes, Doctor.” Hawkeye smiled, then took in a deep breath. “The ree ray rye roh rowster shouts,” he tipped his head back and cried out a rooster call. B.J. had to agree with the spreading of good feeling assessment.
—-
“I have no reason to fear premature balding. My dad’s almost seventy and if he let his hair grow you’d mistake him for Rapunzel,”
Hawkeye sipped his gin and leaned sideways in his chair. “And, furthermost, the gray is not something to be ashamed of.” He swallowed loudly. “It makes me look distinguished,”
“I agree, except for I never said anything about balding. I think,” B.J. took a sip, feeling the heat drain his nose and most of his brainpower. “I think I said something about me thinning. My thinning.”
“Nonsense, non. You have the hair of. Of. I can’t remember any blonde celebrities in my current state.”
“Jean Harlow, but I’m not that blonde.”
“I know. Lana Turner.”
“Temptress Turner.”
“Yes.” Hawkeye’s grin was so slanted it was in danger of sliding off his face and into his martini glass. “B.J., I think I’ve been diagnosed with a type.”
“And what type is that, Hawkeye, A, B, or something else entirely?”
“Blond with blue eyes and an aura of risk.”
B.J. downed his drink quickly and went in for more. He felt Hawkeye’s eyes on his neck. His skin felt prickly. He wanted very much to, well. He didn’t know quite what he wanted. He turned and sat back down, and looked carefully at Hawk. Hawk wasn’t moving, and his face looked brittle, like a stiff wind would snap it.
“You know, if you nicked Margaret’s peroxide you could be describing yourself. You’ve got eyes that could go up against Turner’s.” B.J. tried to keep himself from downing his drink in one go. “What’s your thinking behind it?”
“No thinking. Just a pattern I’m noticing.”
B.J. hummed and took another sip. Then, something struck him while looking up at Hawkeye.
“I’ve got something for you, you have permission to use it on your next nurse,” he cleared his throat. “I do not love thee- yet thee speaking eyes, with their deep, bright, and most expressive blue, between me and the midnight heaven arise, oftener than any eyes I ever knew.”
“Is that your Miss Caroline?”
“The one and only.”
“Make sure to call her back. She’s got the secret drink, I think.”
---
Frank and Hawk had almost come to blows again. It was a freezing night, and a bout of casualties coming through the OR had slowly sent the night bleeding into the day. It was tenser than some other shifts, the injuries worse, the surgeries longer. Hawk and B.J. had traded some jokes and songs, but more often than not they were asking for tools from their nurses, or leaning over some boy's steaming insides and trying to puzzle him back together.
Frank was laying out some anger on his nurse, a new girl with red hair twisted into a nice bun. She was young, and yeah, a bit clumsy, but Frank was a dolt who doled out too much. After the last casualty came through, he had begun to berate her as they washed up, about picking up and dropping things and all around trying to be less worthless.
"Frank, ease up on her, it was her first big night and I’m growing a headache the size of your brain behind my right eye," Hawkeye said, dropping his smock and gloves into the basket.
“Well at least you don’t have to worry about it getting too large,” B.J. said, dropping his own gloves.
"That's no excuse," Frank said, his pointy face screwing up like he'd licked something sour. "Anyone who comes to this MASH unit is expected to be a top tier worker, lest they bring down our record with their incompetence,"
"We all have to start getting better somewhere, Frank," B.J. cut in. “It might help things if you thought about starting yourself.”
"Oh, you're one to talk. Here for how long already and the triage you conducted today was a mess!"
"Do you have a problem with who I brought in?"
"Yes, I do. The soldier who the Colonel lost, he should never have been brought inside the compound, let alone sent into the OR. You're ruining the standards we have here, Captain,"
"Ruin- There was a chance he could survive, and he was brought in early enough to save him. Maybe if you hadn't wasted time arguing with me, he could have made it."
"There was no chance. He was a goner already. If you had an ounce of objectivity, you would have seen that, and maybe he could have died honorably."
Hawkeye threw his towel away, stepping between B.J. and Frank.
"What kind of death here would be honorable, Frank? Where exactly do you see honor occurring?" Hawkeye’s voice was piercing, more fierce than someone running on two hours of sleep had a right to be.
"On the battlefield, the front lines! A brave death, a soldier’s death!"
"The front? Kids dying alone after being left behind, hit by mortars, you think that's honor? Honor isn't being scared and bleeding out from a hole in your belly with no one to even ease the pain, Frank,"
Hawkeye had grown red and shifted forward to lean over Frank. Frank took a step back and almost tripped on Margaret, who grabbed his arm. He glanced at her and back to Hawk. B.J. brushed his hand against Hawkeye's elbow, and the two pairs stepped away from each other. Margaret pushed Frank through the curtains, and Hawkeye turned to the sink again and ran some water, splashing it on his face before leaning on the edge, looking down into the bowl with a stiff back.
B.J. felt a brush against his shoulder and realized the nurse was still there. She had a nice face under the mask, a pinkish complexion that matched her hair.
"Is, are you alright?" She said, her mouth barely moving.
"We'll be okay. Burns is just a flaming dunce. Are you okay? What's your name?"
She nodded absently. "I'm Jane. Weston. Tell him-" and she jerked her head to Hawk, who made no move to signal that he heard them, "Tell him thanks."
B.J. nodded, and the nurse left. He turned back to Hawkeye and leaned over him to turn the faucet off. He didn't move away but laid his hand on Hawkeye's shoulder. Hawk started and turned his head to let B.J. see one blue eye.
"You know about Wilfred Owen?"
B.J. nodded, slowly. He had a strange feeling he both knew and had no idea what Hawk was thinking.
"He was a soldier. Died in action a week before the Great War ended. 'That old lie, dulce et decorum est pro Patria Mori'," Hawk then swiftly turned, facing B.J., and they shared breath for a moment before Hawk stepped sideways, away from B.J. "Let's drink."
They wandered outside, B.J. right behind Hawk.
“What’s the Latin mean? I only got ‘sweet’,”
“Dear Beej, you do just get sweeter and sweeter,” Hawk said, a smile growing on his face.
“Hawk," B.J. said, stopping Hawkeye with a hand on his arm. Hawkeye turned to look at it, his face empty. “Don’t deflect. You wanna talk about this, so let’s talk about it. It’s not every day I hear you talk dirty in Latin,”
“Most people never hear me speak Latin unless it’s the kind for pigs,”
“Hawkeye.”
Hawkeye turned his eyes up to meet B.J.’s, and B.J. felt more than a bit frozen.
“It means ‘how sweet and fitting it is to die for one’s country’. The old lie. I don’t think Frank would understand that one.”
“He doesn’t strike me as someone who enjoys poetry.”
“No,” and Hawkeye smiled, his eyes screwing up and his mouth dropping open. A real smile. “I don’t think Frank’s got the nuance necessary. Or the literacy.”
B.J. smiled. “Alright Hawk, now I say we drink,”
“Arlingday Jbay, eadlay ethay ayway.”
---
“Are you drinking tonight?” B.J. asked, feeling antsy in his office chair.
“Of course. Haven't started yet, was waiting for you to help me make a toast.” Hawk replied, his voice static through the phone.
“We don't have long. It's twelve dollars for ten minutes and five more for every minute after that.” B.J. wanted to throw something. “That's not nearly enough time to fill up my tank on you.”
“Me neither. What ass decided to make people pay to talk to the people you love?”
“Same ass who decided water and electric had to be paid for. Someone who wants to profit off of the things necessary for life.”
“I hate him, whoever he is.” Hawkeye sighed. “Alright. A toast. Do we want to say something funny or heartfelt?”
“I don't know if I could take funny right now, honestly.”
“Is something wrong?”
B.J. sighed slowly. “Hawk, I feel so angry I could cry.”
“Tell me. Tell me about it.”
B.J. couldn't say it. He didn't have the right words.
“I’m sorry Hawk. There's too many things to say and not enough time. Trust me, talking to you will help more than talking about my problems.”
Hawk was silent for a moment. Then, he said, “That's okay. A heartfelt toast then. You pick it.”
B.J. thought for a minute, before looking into his glass of scotch and deciding on one.
“Alright. A toast; here’s a sigh to those who love me, and a smile to those who hate; And whatever sky’s above me, here’s a heart for every fate.”
Hawk was silent for much longer than it took to take a drink. When he finally spoke, his voice was so soft B.J. had to strain himself to hear.
“Do you remember when Carlye Walton dropped in at the 4077?” He asked.
“Yes. She was a prime example of your blonde-and-blue pattern.”
“Remember that talking to you gave me about straying?”
“Yes,” B.J. took a sip and wished it was horrible gin. “I was on my high horse that day.”
“You said you'd never been tempted,”
“I didn't say that, did I?”
“You did.”
“Then I lied.”
Hawkeye huffed into the phone. “Were you lying then?”
“I didn't know I was lying then.”
“Then when? When did you realize you were lying?”
“I,” B.J. thought for a moment. When, then? Then when? When B.J. first saw Hawkeye cry? When B.J. first saw Hawkeye smile? When B.J. first saw Hawkeye?
“God, Hawkeye. I don't know when. I realized I was lying when I was too deep into it for it to change anything. I’m sorry. I wish I was better at using my words. Maybe if what I said didn’t matter so much, I’d be less scared of talking about it.”
“I understand, Beej. I’m sorry if I pried.” Hawkeye sounded so far away, like only half of him had made it to the phone.
“You didn’t pry. Hawk, Jesus. I wish I was there, or you were here. I don’t know how I can keep going without sharing some air with you.”
“We’ve got responsibilities. You have a wife and baby, and I have a seventy-year-old keister to take care of.”
“I can take care of you. All of you.”
“No, B.J. I won’t have you caring yourself into a collapse.”
“It’s not like that. It doesn’t take work. It doesn’t take anything from me, it just gives.”
Hawkeye sighed into the phone. “You can’t have something when it’s 3,000 miles away.”
“Hawkeye, please,”
“I won’t let you derail your life over me.”
“And I won’t let you go again. I’m not letting you get away from me again.” B.J. downed his drink. His grip on the phone was hurting his hand. He sat and listened to Hawkeye's breath for a bit, and wished he could feel the air moving over him.
“Times almost up, B.J..”
“I know. Send me a picture of you in your next letter. Color in the eyes for me with a pen. I miss them. I miss you.”
“Only if you send me a picture of you and Erin in your next letter. I miss you too. Good night, B.J..”
---
"I’m gonna lose some of my favorite parts of me if it doesn't warm up."
Hawk could barely talk through his shivering. B.J. poured himself a cup of coffee from their tin, and sat next to Hawk, throwing a blanket over their legs.
"We'll be okay, the friction our shivering makes will warm us up. Right?"
Hawkeye let out a jittery giggle. "B.J., tell me something warm."
"I can't think from how loud the cold is,"
"Just tell me anything, say something, the breath you let escape will fuel me,"
"How about this. Mill Valley never had any mills."
"Then why the hell is it Mill Valley?"
"I don't know, maybe the Mills lived there and it's at the bottom of a coupla hills,"
"Just a coupla hills does not a valley make,"
"It's nice though, pretty skies and grass and such,"
"Wow, what an illuminating description. Does Mill Valley also have air and trees?"
B.J. let out a laugh that got shaken up falling out of him. "You might say that, yeah,"
“Anyone lived in a pretty how town, with up so floating many bells down!”
"Is that Cummings, again? What do you and he have going on, Hawk?"
"He knows me, B.J., his words make about as much sense as I do. At least, that's what my dad said,"
"You make sense. He makes sense, sometimes."
"He always makes sense. Noone and anyone Earth by April, wish by spirit and if by yes,”
“Tell me what you think it means. I really want to know, because I can’t make heads or tails of it.”
“Shove off, you khazer. Grow some taste.”
“Give me something that rhymes and falls off the tongue easy, with beautiful words. You always have to have something complicated.”
“It’s a testament to my hidden depths.”
B.J. leaned closer, setting his head down in the crook of Hawkeye’s neck. "Yeah, alright, Hawk."
---
The air was laying on top of everything, heavy and unmoving, and the whole compound smelled of cowpat.
"I can't tell my feet from my ankles. B.J., I think I'm melting,"
Hawkeye was laid out on his bunk, on top of his blankets, just in his skivvies and a growing layer of sweat. B.J. looked over at him, in a similar state on his own bunk, and his smile held no empathy.
"You're alright. You just feel like you're melting because of how much you sweat."
"I could bottle this stuff and sell it. Make a fortune."
"It might be better than some of the water around here. You tend to avoid poisons and toxins, right?"
"Quick, grab some beans from the mess, I bet the heat and the water coming off of me could make a mean cup of joe."
B.J. didn't have enough energy to laugh and disturb the air, but he huffed a bit, his smile lazing away. His head was soaked.
"God, what I wouldn't do for a cold shower now."
"You never know what you’ve got until it's taken from you."
B.J. huffed again at that, tilting his head to Hawkeye again. "Just think of how ignorant we were, whining about the cold water. And now we'll never feel clean again. We'll melt before we get the go-ahead to shower."
"Who just said 'you only feel like you're melting'?" Hawkeye said. "I would feel a bit put out but I'm afraid feeling anything would make me pass out from heatstroke."
"Just think cold thoughts."
"Ice. Ice cream. Ice water. Water," Hawkeye scoffed. "Oi vey, we're back on the water again."
"We suffer for a righteous cause."
"Suffer and suffer. Wait, hold it," Hawkeye struggled to a sitting position. "Here's one; When, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes, I all alone beweep my outcast state, And," His brows knit together, and he moved his mouth around like he was swishing the words around his teeth, "Trouble! Trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries, and look upon myself, and curse my fate… Damnit, this would be a good one if I could remember it."
He fell back with a thump on his cot.
"Good Ol' Bill, right?" B.J. said, watching Hawk lay.
"Yeah. He always made it hard to remember stuff." Hawk raised a hand and pushed his damp hair out of his face. "I used to have that one memorized. It was number 28, or maybe 29. God, I wish I could remember, the ending was so good."
"It's alright Hawk, I got the gist. Not your fault if Billy wrote with too thick a verbiage for some."
"You're lucky it's so hot, or I'd throw something at you for that remark."
This time, B.J. gave up the energy to really laugh.
The following day, B.J. gave in and threw a jacket over his shirt, and drug himself to Corporal Denver’s tent. Denver ran the sort-of library that the 4077 kept up. It was basically just a single tent that held a cot and a bookcase, but it was a sought-after position for the gift of privacy. Denver, being the guy who won the last raffle for the place, was a bit of a smug bastard, but not too bad of an egg.
B.J. knocked a couple of times for courtesy before swinging inside. Denver was crouched over his table, a pencil in his hand.
"Hey, Denver,"
"Hiya Dr. Hunnicutt," Denver said, not looking up from his paper. "Looking for a book?"
"Yeah, I am." B.J. shifted from one foot to the other. "Got any Shakespeare?"
"Not in the library right now. A nurse took the last of his, Nurse, um, first name's Jane,"
"Weston?" B.J. supplied.
"Yeah, yeah."
"Was it a play or his poems?"
Denver looked up at him then. "I dunno. He wrote plays?"
B.J. smiled a bit. "Thanks, Denver."
After asking around a bit, he learned that Nurse Weston slept on a bottom bunk near the back of the second nurses' tent. B.J. asked Radar for her shift schedule and found she was mostly on nights to early morning. He laid awake in bed the next night, waiting for Hawk to start breathing heavy and slow, before creeping out of bed and towards the nurses' tent. There was some light from one side of the tent, and he sat outside and waited a bit for the midnight shift to start trickling out.
After a few minutes, B.J. heard giggling, and his head shot up. He'd been sleeping, and a nurse had laughed to find him outside the door.
"Waiting for someone in particular, Doctor?" She said, a smile on her face.
"No- well, yes, actually, um." He felt himself flush. "Is Nurse Weston in?"
The nurse above him giggled again, and said "She's coming," before walking away.
B.J. groaned as he got to his feet. The ground really wasn't playing nice with his tush. He dusted off his pants, then took a step away from the tent door as someone came through.
"Oh, Nurse Weston,"
Jane turned her head, her hands up and tying her red hair back. "Doctor Hunnicutt. Is something wrong?"
"No, I was just wondering if you were interested in trading the Shakespeare book you got from Denver for something," he tried to smile winningly but found he’d kind of forgot how.
"The sonnet book?" Jane said, a bit perplexed. "Well, yeah, if you've got something better. I'm a bigger fan of his plays, to be honest. His poems are kinda dense."
B.J. smiled for real. "Yeah, so I hear. I don't have any Shakespeare plays, but I do have a copy of 'Around the World in 80 Days’?"
"Never heard of it. Any Hardy?"
"Uh, no. How about 'The Count of Monte Cristo'?"
Jane tilted her head. "Is that Dumas?"
"Yeah, it is."
"Deal. Go and get it quick before I'm late and Nurse Houlihan tans my hide."
When Hawkeye was walking back from the showers and singing something jolly the next morning, B.J. shoved the little yellow book under Hawk’s pillow and quickly laid in his own bed and made like he was asleep.
"'Stay on the right side, sister, hm-hm-hm bum-bum sister,’ oh," Hawkeye stopped singing as he came in the Swamp, and B.J. heard him catch the door before it hit the frame, settling it quietly. He crept over to his cot, and B.J. heard shuffling as he changed shoes and dropped his robe. B.J.'s teeth were jittering for some reason. He heard Hawk drop his stuff into his lockbox, then settle onto his bed. A short huff, and some creaking as he shifted, and B.J. could see in his head Hawkeye reaching under his pillow and pulling the book out but couldn't imagine his reaction, so he turned over to face Hawk so he could watch.
Hawk lifted the little yellow book up with a blank face, his mouth hanging open a bit. He turned it over, then opened it up and flipped through a few pages.
"Hap'ly I think on thee," he whispered, then looked over to B.J. and smiled. B.J. couldn't help but smile back.
---
40
e .e. cummings
your homecoming will be my homecoming--
my selves go with you,only i remain;
a shadow phantom effigy or seeming
(an almost someone always who's noone)
a noone who,till their and your returning,
spends the forever of his loneliness
dreaming their eyes have opened to your morning
feeling their stars have risen through your skies:
so,in how merciful love's own name,linger
no more than selfless i can quite endure
the absence of that moment when a stranger
takes in his arms my very life who's your
--when all fears hopes beliefs doubts disappear.
Everywhere and joy's perfect wholeness we're
[P.S. flip over, more on back-]
---
Father Mulcahy was flipping through a notebook at the mess table, ignoring his beige food. Hawkeye went to sit next to him, and B.J. went to follow Hawkeye, as he always wanted. He never could think of a reason not to sit next to Hawk, unless they were fighting, and even then he wanted to sit next to him. So if he sat next to the Father, B.J. would sit next to the father, too.
"Good morrow, father," Hawk said. "And how is thou on this today?"
"Hello, Doctor and Doctor, I'm fine. How art thous?"
B.J. smiled and began to prospect his lunch for something edible. "We're doing fine. Not too much work this week."
"Thank heavens. Last week was quite, hm,"
"It was worse than worse." Hawkeye supplied.
"Yes. Well, in this line of work, no work is a good thing, I suppose." Father picked up a pencil and scratched something in his notebook.
"What's that you're scribbling in? A new book to add to your good book?"
"Oh Doctor Pierce, I would never consider my own writing on the same levels as the prophets," the Father said lightly. "It's my sermon book. I'm trying to find some verse I like for the Methodist service this Sunday. Preaching for Colonel Potter is always a bit nerve-inducing."
"Verses as in bible verses? 'Cus there I'd be of no help unless you start and end near the beginning," Hawkeye said, digging through his corn for some good kernels.
"Bible verses, yes, but also some poetry or a good story sometimes works. Anything that a message can be worked into."
B.J. and Hawkeye tilted their heads to each other, sharing a smile.
"We know a few good poems." B.J. began.
"There once was a man from Madras," Hawkeye said in a booming voice, slowly standing and raising the arm that held his fork like a scepter, "Whose ball-"
"Not like that one, Hawk," B.J. said, pulling him back into his seat with a laugh. The Father was smiling, his eyebrows raised in a way that made B.J. think of his mother. "Something else. What did you want your message to be?"
The Father's smile dropped. "My prayers this past week had been for the casualties we had. I was led to a message about suffering. That boy-" He stopped talking, and B.J. knew who he thought of. A young boy, blond head, and pimply skin. He'd asked to see the Father a few times and had slipped off in his sleep when a fever took him.
The men sat in silence for a while. B.J. felt Hawkeye's knee against his and had a sudden desire to press into his side and pull Hawk's arm around him.
"I know one. A poem, Joyce Kilmer. 'Prayer of a Soldier in France'." Hawkeye laid his fork down and wrapped his hands around the side of the table. “Lord, Thou didst suffer more for me, than all the hosts of land and sea. So let me render back again, this millionth of Thy gift. Amen."
The Father blinked several times silently then gathered up his book and pencil. "Would you write it down for me, please?"
Hawkeye took the book and wrote down a few stanzas. B.J. saw him swallow thickly. "I remember the beginning and the end, but I may have skipped a coupla couplets," he said, handing it back to the Father.
"That's alright, it need not be perfect," The Father's smile was a bit brittle. "Thank you, Hawkeye."
---
The OR was a catastrophe, dust falling from the ceiling as it shook from the force of the shells, nurses, and medics running through and out to restock blood and drugs while the doctors tried to keep quick enough to bring the next round through without sewing their smocks into their current patient. B.J. and Hawk were bent over a difficult case, a man who had taken mine fragments to both legs. Hawkeye was trying to lessen the fear.
“Oh, here’s one. We must not look at goblin men, we must not wear their suits. For even if the stripes are pin, I could not give two hoots.”
B.J. laughed softly, then quieted as he went in with a pair of graspers for a piece of metal. When he had pulled it out and dropped it into the bowl with a satisfying clang, he sent the ball back into Hawk’s court.
“Oh, my love is like a bloody nose, newly sprung in June.”
“Who’s that?” Hawkeye asked.
“Robert Burns. No relation to Frank, of course.”
“Ah. Very good.”
“A great poem.”
“If you like it, then I trust it.”
They sat awhile, working over their respective legs. Hawkeye finished and closed quicker, his leg less damaged. B.J. asked him over to help. Hawk sidled beside B.J. and watched him work.
“You’re very good at this, Doctor.”
“Thank you, Doctor. Any advice?”
“That little shard is scary close to the tibial artery, get it next.”
B.J. shifted his grip on his graspers and went in. He closed the tongs around the tiny shard and pulled it away from the artery.
“Good. I’m gonna see if there’s any more help needed in Pre-op, you’ve got this guy.”
B.J. nodded. “And fare thee well, my only love! See you soon my crocodile!”
Charles let out a sound two tables away. “Can you please refrain from butchering poetry while I am attempting to work?”
B.J. smiled under his mask. “I will come again my love, to see your toothy smile!”
---
“How much of a poetry guy are you?”
“I liked it in school. Went to school with a partial scholarship for an essay on Browning I wrote.” B.J. grinned, taking a drink.
“Here we stand as if alive,” Hawk brought his martini up to his lips again, sipping on it lightly. B.J. watched his tongue make a circuit to gather the slick left behind.
“Didn’t you say you had some good poems you couldn’t say in front of the Father?”
Hawkeye smiled. “Oh yes, many. I love a good limerick.” He sat up, pushing his chest out and raising his eyes. He cleared his throat, then began to speak in a posh accent, “There once was a man named O’Doul, who found little red spots on his tool. His doctor, a cynic, yelled ‘Get out of my clinic! And wipe off that lipstick, you fool!’”
B.J. laughed and put down his glass so he could applaud. Hawk smiled and nodded his head jerkily.
“How about you?”
B.J. hummed, and leaned forward a bit, swirling his drink around his glass.
“There once was a man from Iraq, who had holes down the length of his cock. When he had an erection, he could play a selection of Beethoven, Mozart, and Bach.”
Hawkeye let out his whooping laugh and stomped his feet, his head tilted back and mouth wide. B.J. downed his drink and got up to get more.
“Glad you got a kick out of that. I wouldn’t want to disappoint a poet man like you.”
“Beej, that was fantastic. Do you have any more?”
“None that I have memorized, sadly. That’s my sole party trick. You?”
“That can’t be your only trick.”
“Well,” B.J. smiled and lifted his drink up so his breath fogged the glass a bit, “maybe not my only trick.”
Hawkeye’s smile went crooked and they looked at each other for a moment. Before B.J. could say something else, Hawk turned his eyes down into his own drink.
“Cummings wrote some great love poems,”
“Ah yes, you and your affair with Cummings. What’s the E’s stand for?”
Hawkeye smiled into his drink. “I don’t know, actually.”
“Ed Edith?”
“Eric Ericson,”
“Ethan Easton,”
“Elijah, uh. Everest.”
“Maybe it’s supposed to be sounded out. ‘Ee’.”
“Maybe. Ee. Eeeee,”
B.J. giggled and downed some more gin. “What’s the deal with these love poems, then? I bet he’s got nothing on Whitman.”
“They’re swell. He was a real Don Juan.”
“Give me one. Give me some supporting details in your thesis of support. I want all the details, and start at the beginning, don’t leave any of the good stuff out,” B.J. leaned forward, putting his hands on his knees and beaming at Hawkeye. Hawk had his eyes back in his glass, and he quickly downed it all in one swallow. His eyes were on his feet when he talked again.
“I like my body when it is with your body. It is so quite new a thing.”
B.J. swallowed. Hawk’s voice had gone low. He still was looking at the ground, and B.J. was thankful for that. He had no idea what face he was making.
“Muscles better and nerves more. I like your body. I like what it does, I like its hows.”
Hawk had a naturally nasal voice that should make any attempt at seriousness fail, but. B.J. felt tense.
“I like to feel the spine of your body and its bones, and the trembling-firm-smoothness and which I will again and again and again kiss,”
B.J.’s toes curled in his boots. He almost wanted Hawkeye to stop. He had to focus on not crushing the martini glass’ stem in his grip.
“I like kissing this and that of you. I like,” Hawkeye took a breath, and B.J. shuddered a bit. “Slowly stroking the shocking fuzz of your electric fur, and what is it comes over parting flesh and eyes big love crumbs,”
Hawkeye shifted on his cot, and the creaking noise shot reality back down B.J.’s spine.
“And possibly I like the thrill, of under me you quite new.”
They sat in silence for what felt like a long time. The heat of the room felt heavier on B.J. than it ever had in Korea. He gulped dryly and licked his lips to loosen them.
“You talk like that to all your dates, huh Hawk?”
Hawkeye looked at him then, his blue eyes cutting through the air.
“No, B.J. Only the ones I want to impress.”
B.J. felt out of breath the rest of the night like he was being made to run a marathon. When night came, he creeped out to the showers, not trusting himself to stay quiet when he thought of spines and kisses and parting flesh.
---
Hawkeye,
You asked me about temptation, and when I knew I was lying. I knew I’d been lying to myself the first night I came home when I couldn’t sleep without your snoring three feet to the left of my head. You said you didn't want me derailing my life, well too bad, I’ve done it. I did it for myself. It’s all kind of selfish. But it was because I can’t move forward with my life without you there to crack smart jokes at me.
I’m different, and I’m not fitting into the space I left behind. Living here I like trying to fit a square where a circle once lived. I told Peg. It was hard, but we truly just want each other to be happy, and not constantly to fight while raising Erin. And I don’t know how else to shake it. I’ve been trying to tell you. I’ve tried a million ways. I just don’t think my words are enough.
I went to the library a couple of days ago, looking for the Cummings collection you told me about. It might seem like I’m trying to widen my views, but really I just miss you like hell. I read the whole thing. And then I nicked it by stuffing it under my shirt. There was one poem that almost made me cry in the library. I copied it on the back for you. Maybe Cummings can tell you how I need you better than I can.
I need you to come to San Francisco. Bring clothes, plenty. Stay, as long as I can keep you. Come here, and we’ll talk and drink and I’ll try and make sense of the millions of ways I need to tell you the same thing. I think you already know, though.
The war changed me a lot, but it was meeting you that got through to the heart of me. I know on the outside I don’t look different, but my essence has been shifted three feet to the left of where I was before.
Please come.
Your B.J.
---
B.J. had ordered room service, unwilling to leave his hotel room, so he wasn’t ready for Hawk when he opened the door. B.J. knows he's a mess, unshaven and tired, but Hawk looks so good, travel-rumpled and a bit less thin than before, he just grasps for him in the hall and almost gets them locked out of his room before catching the door with his foot.
"Hawkeye, Hawk," he breaths into his neck.
"B.J.," Hawk pulls back, staring at him before breaking into a smile. B.J. pulled him inside and closed the door, and they stood staring and holding and trading breaths until Hawk broke the silence with a grin.
“I didn’t think you liked Cummings,”
“I do. I spent a long time thinking about him. I love him. I love you.”
Hawkeye shivered. “B.J. you have to be sure. Because once I get you, I’m never letting up.”
“I’m sure. Kiss me.”
Hawkeye leaned in and pressed their lips together in seconds. It was exactly how B.J. had imagined and completely unexpected. He wrapped his arms around Hawk and tried to lay it on him like no one ever had, not a nurse or a Trapper John or his own mother. He was already ruined for anyone other than Hawkeye Pierce, he was going to make sure Hawkeye was ruined for anyone other than himself.
Hawkeye broke the kiss with a gasp and licked his lips. B.J. tightened his arms around Hawk. Hawk giggled a bit, then said while pulling on B.J.’s new beard, "I've got a great one, perfect for this situation. There was an old man with a beard, who said, 'It is just as I feared! Two owls and a hen, four larks and a wren, have all built their nests in my beard.'"
They were still laughing when they kissed again.