Yeah yeah, another day another dollar, and another
insanity-inducing seventeen hours in the operating room. This
time, they came in at, what, eleven PM? It's four in the
afternoon, the perfect time for cocktails. After washing up, of
course. And possibly breaking some things. Possibly a lot of
things. Or possibly just Father Mulcahy's punching bag.

Not just one - two. He lost two today. Charles had the grace not
to say anything, but now BJ Hunnicutt can't say anything. And the
mail doesn't come until tomorrow. Silently he's taking his bloody
gloves and apron off, and silently he starts to head out the door.

A loud groan of relief accompanies Hawkeye as he exits the OR,
stretching his back and rising onto his toes in an attempt to work
out the stiffness. "We have to get some better music, I'll be
singing 'Sentimental Journey' for the next week. And I don't know
the words." Which in normal-person-speak translates as - how are
you doing?

"Yeah." That's all BJ says, pausing in the doorway and looking
back at Hawkeye. In normal-person-speak, that's 'I am very much
not okay, thanks for asking. It's not a transgression against
'first, do no harm' to destroy an inanimate object, right?'. Yeah,
he *looks* back at Hawk, but he doesn't meet his eyes. Then he
*does* go out, and lets the door not-quite-slam behind him.

Uh-oh. That's very very bad. Hawkeye lingers only long enough to
get out of his bloodied clothes (and there's a lot of blood - he
didn't lose anyone today but he *did* have a very nasty arterial
gusher at one point). Then he's chasing after BJ, breaking into a
trot to catch up. "Beej, wait."

BJ slows down, but he doesn't stop. He slows down a great deal, in
fact. See, the thing is, he doesn't want to feel better at the
moment. He wants to go kick some things, or maybe cry a little,
and then come back and get shitfaced. And the problem here is that
he knows Hawkeye's probably going to cheer him up. And, all right,
cheering him up after he pulls one over on Potter is okay, but
cheering him up *now*...well, Beej has a need to wallow in misery
for a bit. Be nice if he had something to be really angry about.
"Yeah?"

Falling into step alongside, Hawkeye hesitates a moment, caught
between the urgent need to make a joke and the vague awareness
that it's probably not the time. "At least we're getting to see
the world, right?" Joke won out.

"Yeah. In all its stinking, spilling glory," replies BJ, pace
quickening ever so slightly - all right, they're headed back to
the Swamp after all. The last word is practically spat out. Glory.
How many of these kids who came in with half their bodies blown to
bits came to Korea thinking they'd get glory? Be upholding peace
and justice and democracy, by shooting the bejeezus out of the
enemy, come hell or high water? "It's funny." Not funny ha-ha, not
the way he says it. "It's funny, how everyone's intestines look
the same, isn't it? Remember Frank not wanting to operate on
Koreans?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I do." Hawkeye gets the message through to his speech
centre, finally. Shut up there, brain, BJ needs you here. "Course
I remember plenty of things about Frank."

"Like what?" Distract me, Hawk. I remember lots of things about
Frank, too, but tell me things I don't know. Give me something to
yell about, to laugh about, give me something to think about other
than those two dead kids in there, and all those dead kids that
didn't even make it here. The ones taking up all the space in my
mind.

Tell him something he doesn't know. That's the important thing.
"Did I ever get around to telling you about the time he yelled at
Ginger in the O.R.? Made her cry, God, that guy was a jerk. So
Trapper and me got Radar to hook up the P.A. system and broadcast
Frank and Ho- and Margaret in one of their more, uh, private
moments." Hawkeye grins, briefly. "That was a hell of a show."

"Oh god," laughs BJ involuntarily, then sighs, but smiles a little
uncertainly. "Radar's a good sport. He's such a good sport. How'd
she get the name Hot Lips, anyway? No one'll tell me." And there
they are at the door; BJ pushes it open and shrugs off his
overshirt, dropping it on his cot.

"Oddly enough, those two occurrences are not unrelated." Hawkeye
drops onto his own bunk and fights the temptation to just collapse
and fall asleep right now this moment. "She used to be...she was
never anybody's favourite person, she was even *worse* before you
got here." He watches BJ, almost warily.

Looking at the still but not seeing it, BJ slowly reaches for his
Godawful Hat and puts it on his head, noting abstractedly, "She's
all right. Yeah, I didn't see her before, but she doesn't give
-me- a hard time." Of course not. He doesn't hit on her. If he
does, it's firmly a joke and not at inappropriate moments.
Starting to fish for a clean glass, totally out of manual
knowledge, he stops and mechanically puts on his own (uglier)
Hawaiian shirt. Then a quick glance to Hawkeye. "Gin?" asks BJ
neutrally. "I still have olives."

"Yeah, thanks." Hawkeye sits in silence, elbows on knees and hands
dangling, and watches. After rather a long time, he says quietly,
"You know you saved *nine* lives back there today."

"Some cat-god somewhere must feel very cheated." The answer's
short. I saved nine, but I lost two. One of them, all right, there
really wasn't anything we could have done for him. Wasn't anything
*I* could have done for him. "Carmichael could've made it if I
hadn't taken so long with McNulty." BJ turns, a parched martini in
each hand, and he holds one out to Hawkeye. Almost in the same
motion, he downs his own, then looks at it in surprise. "Oh look,
I got the olive and forgot the gin."

Hawkeye accepts the drink, but doesn't actually drink it, eyes on
BJ. "You couldn't've known that. It wasn't your fault, Beej." All
the things everyone always says, and they never make anyone feel
better. He knows because he's been on the other side of this
conversation before. The martini is turned around and around in
his hands.

The other doctor - yeah, him, in the ugly-assed hat - just shakes
his head, refilling his glass. "I should've known that," he says
softly, and takes a sip this time. "McNulty's damage was so...I
should've just got Father Mulcahy over and started on Carmichael.
But I thought I could save him. That was...I was...god, it was
*arrogance*!" Raising his glass-holding hand instinctively as if
to smash it to the ground, BJ splashes a bit of gin around. Oh,
jeez, can't waste that stuff. Instead, he just downs this one,
too.

"That's bull and you know it." Hawkeye's tone sharpens, just a
hint of anger creeping in. "It's always a judgement call, you know
that as well as I do. Another time, the same guy with the exact
same injury, he would have lived. Sometimes they don't." And it
tears me just as much as it tears you.

"Sometimes they don't," repeats BJ quietly, standing in a slouch,
one arm resting across his stomach, martini glass - empty but for
the olive - up in the air, in his other hand. His face is slack
and his eyes are distant, off somewhere a few hours ago, no doubt.
"Yeah, it's a judgement call. But when it's the wrong judgement
and some kid dies, some kid trying to do his family and his
country proud--" Sigh. He closes his eyes, which immediately kills
his equilibrium. Weave.

Oops, there he goes. Hawkeye stands and steps forward, reaching
his free hand to BJ's arm. More for comfort than support. "That's
what we do. We're doctors. Henry told me something once, he said
there are two rules of war. Rule one is, young men die. Rule two
is, doctors can't change rule one."

BJ doesn't answer for a long time, just stands there, immensely
grateful for the support, though it's a blurred line between moral
and physical at the moment. He can't open his eyes, he'll start
crying - so he just tosses back his olive, and the movement almost
sends him sailing. No, he's not drunk, just a little buzzed...but
also so very tired. And then his glass-holding hand drops to his
side, and the resting hand goes up to cover as much of his face as
it can, as his face twists up. "Henry sounds like he was a wise
man," comes BJ's voice, low, from behind his hand.

"Ayuh," says Hawkeye softly, tired enough that the state-of-Maine
shows through. "He was." Hell, Henry, why did you have to go and
do that anyway? Poor Radar. "Get to bed, Beej, you're falling
asleep." Quiet, serious, sad.

"That a prescription, doc?" asks BJ, hand moved up to cover his
eyes tightly, now, so nothing spills off his face - there's a
catch in his voice.

"If it has to be." Hawkeye slides his arm around BJ's shoulders
and squeezes briefly, taking the opportunity to direct the other
surgeon in the direction of his bed.

BJ doesn't even think; switched to automatic pilot, he sets the
glass down and takes his hat back off, letting Hawkeye put him to
bed. And he just collapses, face down into his pillow; lots of
exhaustion, a little gin, some words of wisdom, and a lack of
anything tangible to attack are all it takes to push him to tears.
At least he cries silently, shoulders shaking almost like he's
laughing.

But that's not gonna fool anyone. It wouldn't even fool Charles,
let alone Hawkeye, who knows better. He stands there quietly for a
second or two, not looking at anything. Then he downs his martini,
exhales, sets the glass next to the still and heads for the door.
He'll take a walk. Be alone for a while. And sleep is a fading
friend.