Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

BJ hadn’t had time this year to come up with a good costume. He’d lost track of the days—things never seemed quite in order at the 4077th, anyhow—and hadn’t even realized what holiday was approaching until it was already the 29th. And then, of course, had come the shelling, wave after wave of it, and he was left working most of the time. The deluge only broke the day of, early in the morning. He’d fallen asleep and woken up and gone to the hospital again for his post-op shift; and around four in the afternoon Hawkeye had wandered in and pestered him about sneaking away to the party in the mess.

“Sounds fun, Hawk, but I’m afraid I’m stuck here,” BJ had said. He nodded his head in the direction of the worst in their ward: a triplet of boys who’d all been hit by the same shell, the worst of them having lost a leg just above the knee and filled with more shrapnel than a scrapbucket. “I can’t afford to play hookey tonight.”

“When does your shift end?” Hawkeye asked. 

“Eight.”

Hawkeye tsked. “Well, the party’s not on ‘til seven, anyway. I’ll save some punch for you,” he said. He gave BJ a friendly parting touch on the shoulder. “Good luck.”

The hours passed slowly. BJ did paperwork, checked vitals, helped Nurse Shari restock the shelves. He dozed at the desk. That was around the time one of his patients started aspirating—the kid’s heaving gasps woke him, and in another five minutes he was scrubbed and in surgery again, pulling out a piece of shrapnel that had been hiding and missed in the chaos from the backside of a lung. And he was feverish, too—inflammation somewhere. With the load on their staff already, he decided to send the poor kid to Tokyo. He was well enough to make the journey, at least. 

“Horrible way to spend your Halloween,” Shari said. She handed BJ a fresh stack of paperwork. 

“He should still be trick-or-treating,” BJ agreed. 

So it was well past nine before he was out of post-op. The temperature had dropped sometime during the day, nearly freezing; he wrapped himself up as best he could, his green coat layered over his white coat, and returned to the Swamp. 

Everyone he passed was in costume. Hawkeye himself had said he’d had something in mind—“it’ll beat the pants off my Superman, Beej, I swear it”—and BJ had hoped, at the start of the day, that he’d be able to scrounge up something of his own. He thought of digging around for last year’s get-up: a homemade clown costume replete with a red rubber nose, but knew for a fact its pieces had been scattered around to who-knew-where, and it would take an hour at the least to get it all together again. Anything that was properly thought-out would take too long to put together, he figured. So he instead changed from his lab coat and fatigues to his chucks, henley, suspenders, and fishing hat, pulled his robe on over the top for an extra layer of warmth, and hustled to the mess. 

There was hardly standing room in the place. He had to step sideways through the front door, which was when Kellye bumped into him, dressed mostly as herself, but with a pair of paper cat ears and a black nose drawn on. 

“Evening, doctor,” she greeted, as warm as she ever was. She glanced down at his attire. “What are you supposed to be?”

“Thought I’d come as myself for a change,” BJ said. He pasted on a smile.

“Well, you’re very recognizable,” she said diplomatically. 

“I try.” 

Klinger appeared over her shoulder. He was a sight to behold, and of course he would be: pink gossamer from head to toe, a magician’s magic wand in hand. He shouted out a greeting over the din, and then gestured to himself. “What do you think, Captain?”

“It’s something,” BJ said. “Homemade?”

“Of course! Who do you take me for?” Klinger said. In the space he had, he did a little twirl. “At this rate this war is going, I’ll get through all the women from The Wizard of Oz before I make it back to Toledo, but, hey, I’d never turn down an excuse to make a ballgown.”

It clicked then: he’d been Dorothy last year, and now he’d moved on to Glinda. BJ grinned at him. “Well, you know what they say: only bad witches are ugly.”

“Right you are,” Klinger said. He grinned back. “What are you?”

“A draftee,” BJ said. 

“Join the club!” 

BJ shouldered his way deeper into the mess tent. “Where’d you find that much pink gossamer, anyway?”

“I’ve been stocking up since July,” Klinger said. “And only the outer skirt is new stuff. I sacrificed my favorite nightgown for this bodice.” He pulled a beatific expression, a gloved hand pressed over his heart.

“Worthy sacrifice,” BJ nodded. On closer inspection, he noticed the different weave and slightly different shade of pink, but it was excellently done nonetheless. “I envy your skills with a needle.”

“High compliment from a surgeon,” Klinger preened. “You should see Hawkeye’s. I let him borrow some of my stuff.”

“Oh?” BJ asked. “Finally got him in drag, did you?”

“Unfortunately, no,” Klinger said. “Lucky for him, my sewing skills swing both ways.” 

“I’ll keep an eye out,” BJ said. 

Klinger patted him on the arm, and then he was gone, slowly disappearing in the throng of mostly-green bodies. BJ inched his way to where the chow line usually was, and so where the party buffet was almost sure to be. He passed a few good looks on the way—a mummy wrapped in gauze, a handful of witches, a halfway-convincing knight of tinfoil—and many more bad ones, mostly in the form of those who hadn’t done anything but come as they were. At least, BJ thought, he fit in among that group. 

He made it, at last, to the buffet. It had been picked to bits already, but there were still a few kernels of popcorn, pretzels, and half a bowl of punch. BJ scooped the last of the popcorn onto a plate and started to shovel it in his mouth. He hadn’t had anything for dinner but half a sandwich and a glass of orange juice, courtesy of Shari, so he wouldn’t shake as he operated. He scooped up the rest of the pretzels too, as an afterthought, and then poured himself a healthy cup of punch. He’d had worse dinners before. He’d do fine.

“Ah, Hunnicutt, I see you have once again come as a clown.”

BJ frowned, mouth still full of pretzels and popcorn. He glared over at Charles, who was smiling smugly over a nurse’s shoulder, and chewed furiously. “And I see you’ve once again come as a wet blanket, Chuck.”

“Yes, well,” Charles said, “I have better things to do with my time and energy than slave over an ensemble in order to celebrate a decidedly primitive pagan holiday.”

“You should’ve come as a thesaurus,” BJ said. 

Charles scoffed at him. 

“And anyway,” BJ continued, “if this is a ‘decidedly primitive pagan holiday,’ why come to the party at all?”

“Where else can I so easily gawk at people making utter fools of themselves?” Charles said. He reached into his pocket, then, and pulled out a full candy bar, still wrapped in delicate silver foil. “Besides, there are, as you would say, ‘good eats.’” 

BJ glared again. “Where’d you get that?”

“I brought them, of course,” Charles said. “They were snatched up immediately, however, so I’m afraid you’re out of luck.”

BJ held out his plate. “Trade you half for three pretzels?”

“In your dreams, Beej,” Charles said. He tucked the bar back into his breast pocket, patted it, and wandered off.

“Bastard,” BJ muttered. 

He wondered where Hawkeye was. 

BJ made a slow circle around the mess tent looking for him. There were a few more notables: Potter as a cowboy once again, Igor, ironically, as Frankenstein, and a nurse who’d scrounged up a flapper dress from somewhere; but there was no sign of Hawkeye. 

BJ frowned, finished off his pretzels, and sipped his punch. It was odd, losing Hawkeye. He always stood out from a crowd. He was a head taller than a lot of the people in camp for one thing, and was supposed to be a sight to behold tonight—it was likely, then, that he wasn’t here at all. BJ scowled into his drink. He’d probably found someone to play doctor with.

BJ circled back towards the door, agitated. Suddenly, all he wanted to do was go home, sleep, and wake up in November. 

That was when he finally saw him.

He was in a small, open circle near the woodstove, between an unimpressed Nurse Bigelow and Klinger, who was showing off his handiwork, no doubt. He saw what Klinger meant about Hawkeye’s costume immediately: tailored black slacks, a flowing white shirt, and what looked to be Klinger’s nurse cape. But it was his face that really got BJ’s attention.

He was wearing stage makeup. It looked almost professional. Every angle of his face was accentuated: the cut of his jaw under his ear, his cheekbones, the heavy set of his brow and the length of his nose. His eyes stood out, shockingly blue, in the stark depth that he’d been given there; they almost shone in the low light. And above that, his hair, darkened with something, grays erased, was slicked back and away from his forehead. 

BJ fumbled for a coherent thought. After a beat, he managed: he looks striking. 

He moved forward through the crowd.

Hawkeye didn’t spot him until he was practically by his side. This close, BJ noticed the inside of his mouth was uncannily red; from the punch, no doubt, but it only added to the look. “Ah!” Hawkeye said, and his eyes went even brighter. “Mister Harker, yes?”

BJ blinked at him, feeling dumb. 

“He’s Dracula,” Bigelow said. 

“Sure,” BJ nodded. 

Hawkeye’s hand landed on the back of BJ’s neck. 

“You’re not getting any blood from me, Count.” This Bigelow aimed at Hawkeye, but she had a flirtatious glint in her eye that made BJ’s jaw clench.

“No?” Hawkeye said. The hand on the back of BJ’s neck squeezed, and, before he knew it, Hawkeye was tugging at him, forcing him to bare his neck, his mouth hovering over his artery. BJ went tense. Hawkeye, either too drunk or too distracted, didn’t notice; he just grinned against BJ’s skin and moaned. “Mm! Sure, nurse? I could give you a few love bites, too.”

BJ was aware, distantly, that he was smiling. Like it was funny. Like it was a bit they’d planned. It seemed to convince Bigelow, at least, because she scoffed, said, “another time, huh?” and disappeared into the crowd. 

He felt too hot. Hawkeye’s hand on his neck felt like a brand. A good bit of his blood had rushed embarrassingly south, and the only rational part of his mind that remained was glad he was buried in so many layers. 

Hawkeye sighed, close to his ear. His chin stayed hooked over BJ’s shoulder. “I really thought the tall, dark, and handsome look would get her,” he lamented. 

You’re all that already, BJ thought, edging towards delirium. He moved sideways until Hawkeye’s hand detached from his nape. “Why don’t you find someone else to suck on?” BJ said, immediately flushing at his own unintentional double entendre; but at least Hawk was still too far gone to catch it. 

“Not a bad idea,” he mused. “Wonder if anyone else in camp has a thing for vampires.”

BJ thought he might choke. “Does she?”

“Hm?” Hawkeye said. “Oh, Bigelow? No. But someone might.”

BJ nodded. “I’m gonna get more punch.”

Hawkeye trailed him to the table. The punch was nearly gone, but Igor, ever on KP, was overturning what looked to be a cheap bottle of whiskey into the bowl. 

“Nice bolts,” BJ said, gesturing to Igor’s neck.

“Oh, thanks,” Igor said. He was still sober, it seemed. “Roy helped me out after I helped him steal the tinfoil for his knight costume.” 

“Right,” BJ said. Hawkeye was pressed distractingly into his side. “One each for me and the Count.”

“Hey, I’m not on duty, get it yourself,” Igor said. The bottle ran empty. 

It was a foul mixture, but it would do. BJ downed a cup, then a second, in quick succession. At least that seemed to put a dampener on his arousal. 

“Who did your makeup?” BJ asked. 

“One of the nurses, I think,” Hawk said. He threw an arm over BJ’s shoulders, guiding him towards a seat. “Uh…Laurie. No, Kellye. Fuck, I can’t remember.” 

BJ nodded. 

“Looks good though, huh?” Hawkeye grinned. BJ noted that he hadn’t tried to give himself fangs. “Reminds me of being on stage.”

“Who’d you play?”

“Hamlet,” Hawkeye said. He lounged back, cape falling off his shoulders. The shirt was beautifully made, flowy, but tight across Hawkeye’s broad chest. BJ looked away. “‘Course, I was no good. It was just that I was the only boy in all of Crabapple Cove who could memorize all those words. And my Ophelia—beautiful. We kissed backstage once. Never forgot it.”

BJ kept nodding. Maybe if he did his head would shake loose, and he could sleep. 

The line of Hawkeye’s jaw was distracting. He looked good. Ethereal, with colors so stark he almost looked fresh from a black-and-white movie. His knee pressed to BJ’s thigh, warm. 

“Who was your Horatio?” BJ asked.

Hawkeye tilted his head. For a moment, his brows pinched together, and BJ worried he’d said something wrong; but then Hawkeye’s smile was back, just smaller. Sadder. “My best friend,” he said. 

“Good actor?”

Hawkeye laughed. “God, no! None of us were.”

Around them, the crowd began to thin. BJ was starting to pass tipsy for truly drunk, and Hawkeye was slurring; probably, they should have called it a night then. But Hawkeye was happy, loose, pleasant, and BJ felt like he was glued to him. 

He thought about Hawkeye’s teeth hovering near his neck.

He thought, too, that if Hawkeye asked, he wouldn’t say no. He’d let Hawkeye sink his teeth in. Let him drink ‘til he’d had his fill, until BJ was dizzy with blood loss. He’d let him. 

BJ shook his head and filed the thought away. 

“I never asked who you’re meant to be,” Hawkeye said. 

BJ shrugged. He was tired. 

“Hold on, hold on, lemme guess,” Hawkeye said. He sat up suddenly, swaying. His face was too close. He squinted at BJ like he was inspecting him, and his eyes swept up and down the length of his body. BJ squirmed under the attention. “A salesman. No! No, you’re…a clown. Again.”

“Closer,” BJ said. 

“Hm.” Hawkeye tilted his head this way, that, and poked at BJ’s shoulder. “A monster that just escaped from a closet. That’s why you’re covered in so many clothes.”

BJ smiled at that. “No, not quite.”

A moment passed; then, with a quick grin, Hawkeye seemed to catch on. “An off-duty doctor? A draftee?”

“Very warm.”

“A man with a horrible moustache?”

BJ kicked at Hawkeye’s ankle. “Cold!”

“You’re yourself,” Hawkeye finally conceded. “And I must say, you’re his spitting image.”

“I would hope so.” 

“Mm, you never know. You know Charlie Chaplin once lost a Charlie Chaplin look alike contest?”

BJ scoffed. “I think Dracula and Doctor BJ Hunnicutt might be drunk.”

“I think I agree,” Hawkeye said. 

BJ helped him to his feet. He and Hawk had calluses and scars in many of the same places, where scalpels had spent long hours resting; BJ thought he could feel all of them, for a moment, but then they were gone. 

“‘Night, doctors,” someone called on their way out. 

“I am no doctor,” Hawkeye called back, voice pulling low into a Transylvanian accent as he spoke. “But! I am taking blood donations!”

A few people nearby laughed. Hawkeye swayed, made another quip, and then leaned back against BJ. Even under the layer of makeup, it was easy to see how flushed Hawk was. Beautiful and alive. BJ wrapped an arm across his back and steered him out the doors. 

“Back to my castle, Renfield!” Hawkeye crowed. He giggled at himself, leaning into BJ again, down the whole line of their bodies. Somewhere halfway home he turned his face into BJ’s neck and laughed into it, breathy and loose. “Mm, O-negative, my favorite!”

Swallowing, BJ leaned back, nudging Hawk towards the showers. Of course Hawkeye knew his blood type. “Let’s get that makeup off you, Hawk.”

“Makeup? I’ll have you know I’m always this dashing,” Hawkeye said, straightening up in faux-offense. It didn’t last long; he was giggling again soon. 

“Uh-huh,” BJ said. “You’re gonna wake up with eye irritation if you don’t.”

“Yes, doctor,” Hawkeye said. He let BJ guide him. “Gee, it’s a good thing you came as yourself.”

An enlisted man was there already, taking up the other stall, but he was drunk to the point of hardly being awake; and so BJ didn’t bother to hide how he watched Hawkeye undress, careful, like he was afraid to tear Klinger’s handiwork. He held the costume for him and kept him on track as he got distracted. He told him when he’d missed a spot. The powder ran first, and then the color in his hair, dark rivulets trailing down Hawkeye’s chest and past where BJ let himself look. Then the dark lines under his cheeks, his jaw, his brows, scrubbed away with a thumb. And when it was all gone, there was Hawkeye: older, more worn, but still just as beautiful. 

“I’ll take these back to Klinger,” BJ said. He left Hawk there, lending him his blue robe, and disappeared. 

He loved Hawkeye. He did. He’d always known he did, too, but it was never too much, never too far—just the kind of love he held for any close friend. Maybe he was more devoted to Hawkeye than he had been to anyone before because of their circumstance. Or maybe not. Maybe it was just Hawk. BJ couldn’t think of anyone else he wanted more, anyone else he wanted to sit at the feet at, anyone else he wanted to pester until they exploded, anyone else he wanted to look after and hold onto so no one else could. Except for Peg. That was what made it so troubling. 

Klinger wasn’t in the office, so BJ left the costume folded in a careful pile on his cot. He thought of returning to his rounds, but the night-shift nurses were on now; and beyond that, he was exhausted. He was running on even less sleep and food than usual. Even he could listen to his body, sometimes. 

He turned for home.

When he got there, Hawkeye was already asleep, still wrapped in BJ’s blue robe.

For a while, unable to sleep, BJ watched him. His chest rose and fell steadily, and his face was slack, peaceful. In the dark the blue of BJ’s robe washed out to gray. It looked good on him, BJ thought—right. 

When he did finally sleep, Hawkeye was there too. BJ woke up only a few hours later, hard, and with the phantom sensation of teeth in his neck. 

And when he rolled over onto his stomach, thrusting dazedly into the circle of his fist, he tried not to think of Hawkeye at all. 

November started out cold, but quiet, at least. Most of camp was hungover, BJ and Hawkeye included, and neither of them roused until well past reveille. Hawkeye returned BJ’s robe to him with a quick thanks, then pulled on his own. BJ ignored his own disappointment—red looked better on Hawk, anyway. 

Over breakfast, Hawkeye rubbed at his temple and pushed food around his tray. “Just once, I’d like something edible,” he complained. 

“These grits look like concrete,” BJ agreed. 

Groaning, Hawkeye shoved the tray down the table. “Anyway,” he hummed, “I’ve lost a bit of last night. How was my costume?”

BJ took a careful bite of a biscuit. It cracked and crumbled in his mouth. “I could’ve done better,” he said, “but you were perfect.”

Chapter Text

BJ called Hawkeye from the hospital at about quarter to nine, which was when he’d finally given in and accepted that he was drowning in paperwork, no dry land in sight. His rounds had run long, and the stack on his desk grew; probably, he wouldn’t make it home for the party until nearly eleven, and that was if he got lucky.

It rang a few times; Hawkeye was busy with decorating, BJ figured. There was a small stab of frustration in his stomach. Then Hawkeye picked up. “Nyes?”

“Hawk.”

“Hiya, Beej,” Hawkeye said. BJ heard the warmth in his voice. “How’s work?”

“Neverending,” BJ said. He rubbed tiredly at his brow. “I’m stuck here for a while yet, I think.”

Hawkeye sighed into the phone. “Sorry, Beej,” he said. “Do you know when you’ll get home?”

“Eleven,” BJ winced. “Hopefully.”

“Damn,” Hawkeye swore. “Well, I’ll just have to save some punch for you.”

“That’s alright,” BJ said immediately. “Sorry I won’t be home to help you.”

“I’ll just have to rely on my many years of interior design experience,” Hawkeye joked. BJ let himself smile—last summer, when they’d had to finally let go of the old couch, they’d decided to redesign the entire living room. Hawkeye hadn’t done much to contribute beyond fighting with BJ about color palettes and helping him move the furniture. It’d been added to their repertoire of inside jokes in the months since. “Sam called, anyway—I’ll enlist her help clearing out the den for a dance floor.”

BJ winced again. He should’ve been there, with Hawkeye, holding up one end of the coffee table. “Sorry,” he repeated. 

“What for?” Hawkeye scoffed. “She’s stronger than you are.”

“Hey,” BJ scoffed. He paused, fidgeting with the phone chord for a moment. “You didn’t complain about my strength the other night when—”

“Beej,” Hawkeye hissed. There was a smile in his voice. “Not over the phone.”

BJ smiled to himself again, pleased. “You’ll be alright with the food and everything?”

“We made practically all of it yesterday, so I’d say so,” Hawkeye said. Then, as if he could read BJ’s mind (which, at this point, he probably could), he said, “You don’t have to worry, you know. I’m okay here on my own. I’ll handle it—but I’ll miss you all the while.”

“Okay.” BJ breathed in through his nose, steadying. “Hawk?”

“Mhm?”

“Love you.”

“Aw, shucks,” Hawkeye said. “Love you too, Beej. Now hang up and finish your damn work already.”

BJ laughed. “Yes, Doctor,” he said, and set the phone back into the cradle with a click. 

Miracle of miracles, he managed to wrap everything up and hit the road by ten. The day had been long, too long, so he mostly thought of nothing in particular as San Francisco passed him in a blur. But he did think of Hawkeye. BJ imagined him flitting around the party, in his element entirely as he caught up with their friends, flirted aimlessly, and talked with food in his mouth. Idly, he wondered if Hawkeye would be in costume. They hadn’t discussed it, but on their hand-written invites were the words costumes encouraged. If Hawk did dress up, BJ didn’t know what he’d be. BJ himself had nothing planned; by the time he joined the festivities, there’d be no time to dress up himself, anyway.

He pulled into their driveway a half-hour later. The yard and the street were packed with their friends’ parked cars, and even from outside BJ could hear the sound of voices and music, and saw shadows passing by their bright windows. The party was in full swing.

BJ slipped inside. Every surface of their living room had been taken over by someone, or a pair of someones, all in costume bar none, and BJ felt suddenly, immediately out of place in his own home. He caught a few eyes and smiled, returned friendly greetings, and started off toward the kitchen. Before anything else, he needed to eat something.

The kitchen, too, was crowded. Before long BJ had bumped sidelong into Sam and her femme, who were leaning, annoyingly, against the door of the fridge. 

“BJ!” Sam smiled. “Didn’t know if you’d get here before the party was over.”

“By the skin of my teeth,” BJ said, smiling tightly. He gestured vaguely at the fridge. “Excuse me.”

They moved, and BJ ducked inside. Most of the fridge contents tonight were more servings of party food, dips and jello molds and things of that kind, but he managed to dig around them enough to produce fixings for a sandwich. He skirted around and made for the breadbox. “So, what are you two meant to be?”

“Bonnie and Clyde,” Sam said. She held out her hand—and BJ, suddenly, remembered he didn’t know the other woman’s name—and spun her girl in a circle. “And what are you meant to be?”

“Nothing yet,” BJ said. He fixed his sandwich, then shoved it down in a handful of quick bites. “By the way, do you know where—?”

“He’s out in the yard,” Sam said. 

BJ flushed. “Thanks,” he said, and headed for the back door.

The crowd outside was thinner, but it still took a moment to spot Hawkeye in the dark. BJ recognized him by the breadth of his shoulders. He was around their small firepit, his back turned, holding court with a handful of their younger friends—the late teens and twenty-somethings who had gravitated to Hawk the moment he dared to make a queer joke in mixed company. Hawkeye was telling some sort of story to them, BJ could tell, even though he couldn’t yet understand the words he was saying. He could hardly even see him—the firelight cast him entirely in silhouette. 

BJ crossed the yard. “That was back in ‘54, mind you,” Hawkeye was saying, his voice, animated and familiar, tipping into a laugh. “So of course I didn’t have a clue—”

BJ came up behind. “A clue of what?”

Hawkeye jumped, then turned, his costume swishing. “Beej!”

BJ stopped suddenly short, his mouth going dry. Hawkeye looked—BJ blinked, smiled, and gave Hawkeye a quick kiss on the cheek. Hawkeye looked good. 

A floor-length cape covered most of his costume, but at his collar BJ noticed the stark white of a poet shirt, dotted with dark splotches of fake blood. And his face—the makeup was subtle, but drew out Hawk’s natural sharpness. There was a trickle of fake blood trailing from the corner of his lips. His hair was combed back. He looked like himself, but turned up by degrees, his eyes shadowed and glowing in the firelight, grin already sharp.

“Like what you see?” Hawk leered.

BJ’s face heated. “Please, dear, not in front of the children,” he deflected. “What didn’t you have a clue about?”

“You,” Hawkeye said. Mercifully, he didn’t tease BJ any further about what he’d picked up on immediately—namely, that BJ found his getup hopelessly, desperately attractive, and that he wasn’t sure how long he’d survive this party. “Our letter writing campaign. You remember that? I don’t think I went a single week between October of ‘53 and March of ‘55 without at least a postcard.”

BJ flushed deeper, caught between arousal and embarrassment. In hindsight, he’d been so obvious—even thousands of miles couldn’t keep him from wanting to hear Hawkeye’s every word, and be heard by Hawkeye in turn. “What can I say? Your verbosity rubbed off on me.”

“Among other things,” Hawkeye murmured, leaning in and speaking just loud enough for BJ alone to hear. He grinned wickedly and turned back to the group, launching back into the story of their early-days romance, focusing on the humor of their years-long, oblivious back-and-forth. BJ tucked himself into Hawkeye’s side, sliding his arm beneath his cape, hand coming to rest low on Hawkeye’s hip. He was warm from the fire. From there, he listened without absorbing anything—he knew the story already, anyhow—and watched the side of Hawkeye’s face as he spoke, the way his jaw flexed and his head tilted. Every time Hawkeye laughed, BJ stared at the long line of his throat, the shine of his teeth, and fought to keep from swaying closer into Hawkeye’s space. 

It was going to be a long night.

After he detached himself from Hawkeye’s side, BJ made his rounds. There were plenty of people to catch up with, and a few among them that he really wanted to chat with; all of them demanded his attention, for at least a minute or two, as did the duties of party upkeep. He was refilling a bowl of chips in the kitchen when Hawkeye found him again, his fingers dancing over BJ’s arms in greeting. 

“That’s a dashing costume you’ve got on, Beej,” Hawkeye said. He leaned in, his front pressed along BJ’s back, mouth ghosting over BJ’s ear. “You gonna examine me later, doctor?”

BJ swallowed. His entire body flooded with heat. “Hawk,” he hissed, and rolled his shoulder back sharply enough to dislodge him. 

He immediately regretted the feeling of Hawkeye’s warmth leaving him. “Sorry,” Hawkeye muttered. “I thought…”

BJ stiffened. He rolled the top of the chip bag closed, secured it with a clip, and breathed in, steady, through his nose. “You thought right,” he managed, gripping the refilled bowl with both hands. “Too right. Save it for later.”

“Oh,” Hawkeye said. His smile returned. “How soon is later?”

BJ glared at him and left the kitchen.

Midnight rolled around soon enough. The crowd thinned. The party narrowed to the living room, and BJ, restless even after his long day at work, busied himself with cleaning up while the festivities wound down around him. Every time he passed through the den, Hawkeye caught his eye and flashed his teeth in a smile—and after a few rounds of this, BJ confined himself to the kitchen, running cold water from the tap over his hands as he rinsed and re-rinsed dishes. 

When it was nearly one o’clock, and there were only a few scattered voices left in the house, Hawkeye called him from the living room. “Beej!” he yelled, “why don’t you come join the party?”

Reluctantly, BJ went. Only five people, himself and Hawkeye included, were left—Sam and her girl, and Teddy, a surgeon they worked with that also fell into their sort of scene. Teddy was handsome in the abstract sort of way that made BJ jealous, especially when, like now, he was in conversation with Hawkeye. 

“There he is,” Hawkeye said. He gestured for BJ to join him. “Working all day and still busy with party clean-up. You know we could do that in the morning?”

Hawk’s hand closed around his wrist and tugged him down onto the couch. BJ landed nearly in Hawkeye’s lap, and immediately Hawkeye had his arm wrapped across his shoulders, pinning him in. 

“Well,” BJ said. He was flustered already. “It’s just sitting there.”

Hawkeye laughed. His breath ghosted over BJ’s jaw, over his neck. “You work too hard for your own good,” he said, and hooked their ankles together.

BJ laughed back, his posture tight. It wasn’t unusual for Hawkeye to sit so close, but around company, when BJ already felt like desire was gnawing a hole in his gut, it was almost overwhelming. The blush on his cheeks felt like a signal flare. He sunk back into the couch, resting his head on the curve of Hawkeye’s arm, and tried to pretend he was outside of himself, at least for a moment. Like if he could only focus, Hawkeye’s thigh pressed against his would stop feeling like it was burning him. 

A joke was said, and the group laughed; BJ pasted on a smile. After a few minutes Hawkeye nudged him, getting his attention—there was a piece of chocolate pinched in his fingers, held out in BJ’s direction. “Want some?”

“Sure,” BJ said. It’d be something else to focus on.

Hawkeye, though, bypassed the hand BJ held out and instead pressed the candy to BJ’s lips. BJ blinked, all the sensation in his body rushing back. For a moment he almost felt dizzy. Hawkeye pressed more insistently, and so BJ opened his mouth, letting Hawkeye place the chocolate on the tip of his tongue. 

“There you go,” Hawkeye said. He smiled, and his attention turned back to the group.

BJ’s ears rang. He stared, helpless, at the side of Hawkeye’s face. 

“Hawk,” BJ said. His voice was revealingly rough.

“Mhm?”

“Got the time?”

Hawkeye frowned at him. “Since when have you seen a vampire wear a watch?” he asked, then grabbed BJ’s own wrist pointedly. “One-ten.”

“Past our bedtime,” BJ said. 

“Is it that late?” Teddy asked. “Gee, I oughta get going.”

“We should call it a night, Hawk,” BJ said. 

“Hm,” Hawkeye said. “If Sam and Maureen are ready to hit the road…”

“We won’t keep you,” Maureen said. 

BJ didn’t even have the wherewithal to be grateful to finally relearn her name. He didn’t even really watch her go, Sam pulling her along gently by the arm; he stared at a point over their shoulders instead, not quite focused. He felt Hawkeye stand, his body dragging against BJ’s, and then leaving him bereft as he showed their guests to the door, joking lightly about BJ’s long day at work and both of them closing in on forty, neatly explaining the quick end to the night away. 

BJ stood up the moment he heard Hawkeye bolt the front door closed. 

“Well, I guess I’m all yours,” Hawkeye said. He was grinning dirtily, standing between the door and the den. “What do you—”

BJ grabbed Hawkeye by the shoulders and cut him off with a frantic kiss. 

“You,” BJ groaned, leaning heavily into Hawkeye’s space. “You were doing that on purpose.”

“Doing what?” Hawkeye asked, all innocence. He licked at his lower lip. The blood had faded and smeared along the line of his jaw, and BJ wasn’t sure if he had done that or if it had happened sometime in the evening without his notice. 

BJ kissed him again, licking into his mouth. “Bed,” BJ groaned. “Please.”

“Yeah, okay,” Hawkeye breathed. BJ took satisfaction in the fact that he’d flustered Hawkeye back.

They tumbled down the hall, their bodies overlapping, and made it finally to their bedroom. As soon as the door was shut BJ tugged Hawkeye backwards, pinning himself under Hawkeye’s weight. “Tease,” he accused, and dragged Hawkeye in by the hips. 

“Couldn’t help it,” Hawkeye said. He dipped his head, kissing along BJ’s jaw. “I like it when you want me.”

“I always want you,” BJ said. He turned, caught Hawkeye’s mouth in another kiss. Sometimes it just hit him harder, the desire—that was all. He shoved, impatient, against Hawkeye’s shoulder. 

“Alright, keep your pants on,” Hawkeye said. He tugged BJ backwards, spun him, and dropped him ass-first onto the bed. BJ watched, dumbstruck, as Hawkeye stripped quickly: first his shoes, then from the shoulders down, all of it landing in a heap on the floor. He gave BJ a look. “That was just an expression, y’know.”

BJ blinked. “Yeah,” he said, a little dumb, and undid his tie. 

Hawkeye helped, kneeling to pull off BJ’s shoes and socks. From there he leaned forward, undoing BJ’s belt, and then nosed against BJ’s cock, still trapped beneath layers. BJ hissed, bucking up into the contact, before he grabbed, desperate, at Hawkeye’s shoulder. “Hawk, wait, wait—”

Hawkeye went still. “Okay?”

“I…” BJ trailed off. He licked at his lower lip, tensed his jaw. It wasn’t like they’d never done it the way he wanted—not like he’d never asked outright, either—but all the same he couldn’t form the words. Even though he was still mostly dressed, he felt bare. “Need you to—um.”

Hawkeye rubbed soothingly at his knee. “What is it, Beej?”

BJ shifted back, pulling Hawkeye up and onto the bed with him. He nudged Hawkeye forward with a hand on the small of his back. Hawkeye took the hint, pulling BJ down and laying across his side, his thigh between both of BJ’s, and began undoing the buttons of BJ’s shirt. BJ kissed him again, rolled Hawkeye further onto him, until he was again pinned by his weight—it felt easier, that way, somehow. He leaned up, trying to deepen the kiss. 

“Beej,” Hawkeye said. He pulled back, just an inch, letting BJ hover in the space between them. His hand rested on BJ’s sternum, over the fabric of his tee, skewed left—directly over his heart. “What do you want?”

BJ squirmed, trapped under Hawkeye’s gaze. He worked his jaw, the words forming on his tongue, but he couldn’t say them—Hawkeye seemed to notice his hesitation, and in response, he kissed him deeply, and rolled his hips forward. 

“C’mon,” Hawkeye said. “Anything.”

“Need you to fuck me,” BJ blurted. 

Hawkeye groaned. “That's all?” he asked, and thrust against BJ again. 

It wasn’t all, not quite, but it’d been so hard to verbalize just that desire, just that base need; BJ figured he could get out the rest once Hawkeye had started really touching him, and he stopped feeling so incredibly overwrought and desperate. He leaned up into Hawkeye’s hands, enough for Hawkeye to pull his tee up and off of his torso, his fingers following the same trail on their way back down to BJ’s waist. BJ squirmed. For a moment, Hawkeye pulled back and stared at him, almost appraising, with his mouth tipped open. BJ burned, embarrassed—though they’d been together for years, he felt too needy suddenly, too obvious. There were some fantasies he’d kept from Hawkeye for a reason.

Hawkeye groaned, low in his chest. He flashed a smile, dirty, and said, “you look good enough to eat.”

BJ gasped, his hips bucking up against nothing. 

Hawkeye’s smile widened. “Thought so,” he said, and dipped to kiss BJ’s stomach. “The costume really got you, huh?”

BJ nodded, dumbstruck and even more embarrassed than he already had been. He’d really been obvious, he realized—desperate and obvious. 

Hawkeye’s hands dug into BJ’s hips. He’d worked his way down past BJ’s navel, and hummed against the oversensitive skin just above his fly. “Mm, what about it, honey? Hm?”

BJ clung onto the bedsheets. “Can you please just—take off my clothes,” he said, his jaw set, doing his level best to avoid pulling Hawkeye up to his neck by the hair.

“Twist my arm about it, why don’t you,” Hawkeye said. He popped open the button of BJ’s fly. 

Hawkeye touched him then, just a few passes of his hand over the front of BJ’s boxers before he moved further down to remove his shoes and socks, but as worked up as he was BJ couldn’t help but whine at the contact, his cock jumping against Hawkeye’s palm. Hawk did nothing but make an appreciative noise, already settling further down BJ’s body, his touch slow. 

BJ’s shoes landed with clunks on the floor. His socks next. But from there Hawkeye only pushed up the hem of one pant leg, bunching it around BJ’s knee, and trailed his teeth along the edge of BJ’s calf muscle, all the while looking up at BJ through his lashes. 

“Hawk,” BJ said, strangled.

“Give me a minute,” Hawkeye breathed. He alternated between kisses and nips across BJ’s skin, up one leg, then the other; he worked along BJ’s body that way, agonizingly slow. By the time Hawkeye had undressed him fully, had his mouth hovering over BJ’s collarbone, BJ was panting, painfully hard and leaking against his own stomach. 

“Please,” BJ begged.

Hawkeye reached past him then, and without having to look produced the vial of lube that was kept in the drawer of his bedside table. BJ watched as Hawkeye sat back on his haunches, unscrewing the lid—his hair was loosened, cast across his forehead again, and his cheeks were a beautiful shade of pink. And of course Hawk saw that BJ was looking. He flashed a showman’s grin. “How do you want me?”

BJ swallowed. He wanted lots of things—too many things. He wanted Hawkeye inside, all around him, pressed so close they’d meld into one person, wanted him to sink his teeth in and take as much as he needed, make BJ dizzy until all he could do was let his head loll across the sheets. He wanted Hawkeye to need him indispensably, for Hawkeye to tell him so. There were only so many of these things he could say. So instead he just rolled onto his side, pulling Hawk down by the wrist until he was laid up behind him, and pressed his hips back. In response, Hawkeye hooked his leg across BJ’s and pressed a kiss to his nape. 

For a moment, they lapsed into silence, with only the sounds of their breathing filling the bedroom. BJ felt like his heart would beat right out of his chest—he wondered if Hawkeye felt it against his own chest, or saw it in BJ’s carotid as it beat within his neck. 

“Hawk,” BJ complained.

“Relax, I’m warming it in my hand,” Hawkeye said. “Unless you want cold lube inside you?”

BJ shivered. For a long, ridiculous stretch, he thought of Hawkeye, cold to the touch, only warming through BJ’s transferred body heat. “What can I say,” he said through gritted teeth, “you know me.”

Hawkeye laughed, his breath warm against the bare skin of BJ’s shoulder. “Well, I wouldn’t, and I happen to be a subscriber to the Golden Rule,” Hawkeye said. There was a slick sound, skin-on-skin, and then Hawkeye moaned. “God, Beej—y’know I’ve been thinking about this all night?”

BJ had a reply ready on his tongue—no, because this is taking all night—but it got stuck behind his teeth as Hawkeye pushed in, even and slow. BJ hissed through his teeth, shuddering. He felt Hawkeye’s hand, still coated in body-warmed lube, pet at his flank. “Relax, Beej. I’ve got you.”

BJ shuddered again, tipping his head back to groan. He rocked back, taking Hawkeye deeper, the stretch this side of too painful, and all the more perfect for it. His whole body thrummed with heat. He turned his face into the crook of his elbow, muffling a series of noises in his skin. He wanted Hawkeye to move—not wait for BJ’s own comfort. He didn’t want to be eased in. He wanted to be taken.

Finally, Hawk pushed all the way in, his body wrapping fully across BJ’s back. He hooked his chin over BJ’s shoulder; when he spoke, his lips brushed against BJ’s neck. “God, you feel good.”

Hawkeye’s grip on BJ’s side tightened as he rolled his hips back, forward again—BJ hoped he’d leave fingerprint-shaped bruises behind, a little reminder for him to poke and prod during long shifts at his desk. He threw his free arm back, gripping at Hawkeye’s hip in turn, urging him forward. “Please—harder, please, Hawk—”

So Hawkeye snapped his hips forward. BJ let out a yelp, jostling forward an inch across the bedspread. Then a second snap, a third—BJ arched further into Hawkeye’s grip, bared his neck and hoped Hawkeye would get the hint. When Hawkeye set a pace and BJ couldn’t stand it any longer, he took his hand from Hawkeye’s hip and reached down, timing strokes of his hand with Hawkeye’s hips, tears springing up in the corners of his eyes. He couldn’t help but start babbling. “Fuck, fuck—oh, God—please, take me—use me, I can take it, Hawk, please—”

There was the sound of Hawkeye whining, close to BJ’s ear. The brush of his lips, and then: his teeth, sinking into the skin of BJ’s neck, just below the curve of his jaw. BJ gasped, coming over his fist. 

He felt dizzy, lightheaded—there were bright spots dancing like snowflakes across his vision. And then Hawkeye didn’t stop—he rolled BJ onto his stomach, flattened himself across BJ’s spine and kept moving, keeping up a string of babbled words of his own. BJ squirmed, oversensitive and overwhelmed, while Hawkeye whined and keened into his ear. “So good, BJ—so good—you’re so, so—”

Hawkeye pressed his nose against the junction of BJ’s neck and came with a groan. 

BJ didn’t realize he’d let tears slip down his cheeks until Hawkeye had rolled him over again, his shaky fingers pressing into BJ’s cheeks. “Shit—did I—Beej, are you okay?”

BJ nodded, pulling Hawkeye down against him again. He wrapped his arms across Hawkeye’s back, tucked his nose into his shoulder, a mirror of what Hawkeye had just done, and sighed. “Love you,” he said. 

Hawkeye’s voice was muffled by their pillow. “You’re sure?”

“It was perfect,” BJ said. He blinked, slow. He felt a bit spacey, out of it—like he’d lost blood. And still he was twitchy and too-sensitive. He squeezed his arms around Hawkeye, like the weight of him could wring out the feeling like wringing out a rag—and it did, nearly. He could’ve melted into the mattress. 

“Okay,” Hawkeye sighed. A long beat of silence passed; BJ’s eyes started to droop. “Are you falling asleep on me?”

“No,” BJ lied.

Hawkeye’s teeth on him again—a smile, and then a playful nip. BJ jolted, his leg kicking involuntarily. “Wow,” Hawkeye said, grinning wider, “you really like that, huh?”

BJ blinked. He was slow to respond. “Don’t ask me to explain it.”

“I won’t,” Hawkeye said, which BJ suspected was a lie. He kissed BJ’s shoulder and sat up. They were sticky—they’d both need a shower. Hawkeye still had a stain of fake blood smeared across his jaw; for a moment, BJ let himself believe it was his own. 

“Shower?” BJ asked. He sat up after Hawkeye. His body ached pleasantly: worn-out, well-used. He wondered if it would take much convincing for Hawkeye to do that to him again. 

“Sure,” Hawkeye said. His brow was furrowed. He reached for BJ’s jaw—no, his neck—and pressed his fingers against the bite mark he’d left. BJ twitched into the touch. “Uh-oh. That’s really going to bruise.”

BJ set his jaw, biting back a groan. The thought thrilled him, just a little. “Show me?”

So Hawkeye helped him out of bed—BJ’s legs were shaking, and there was a trail of come leaking down his inner thigh. In the en-suite, BJ examined the bite in the mirror: red, stark against his skin, and it would only darken. He pressed the tips of his fingers into the spaces Hawkeye’s incisors had been. Christ, BJ thought—you could take dental prints.

“I think I’ll aim for your shoulder next time,” Hawkeye said.

BJ tightened his grip around the lip of the sink. “Uh-huh.”

He caught Hawkeye’s teasing smile in the mirror. “You can’t go into work like that, you know,” he said. He tilted his head in thought. “I think you’re just about Maureen’s color. I’ll call her in the morning and ask to borrow her concealer.” 

BJ huffed out a laugh. “That might be wise.”

“Better yet,” Hawkeye said, and reached forward to squeeze BJ’s hip, “I’ll just ask her for the brand, and get you some of your own. Just in case.”

BJ swallowed. The mark on his neck shifted, just barely. “Just in case.”