The heat has finally broken. The rain has not yet come, but judging from the electricity dancing around the mountains, it won't be long now. Thunder booms and crashes. And just outside the Swamp, Hawkeye Pierce is doing his level best to shout down the storm. He might be doomed to failure but he's giving it his best shot. "OH YEAH? YOUR MOTHER WAS A ZEPHYR!" Bathrobe, gin, and hollering at the sky. It's practically a restful evening. "That man don't love you, no he don't, he's only jivin' you little girl, lovin' the girl next door," sings BJ under his breath, carrying an armful of envelopes and sorting through them. An armful of envelopes and a nice-sized box, as a matter of fact. He glances up, hearing Hawkeye before he sees him, and grins. "Mail! If you make me a martini I'll tell ya what you got." Yelling at the thunder. Yelling drunk at the thunder. Beej would join in, but, well - mail! Actually, he's not drunk yet. He has barely even begun to drink. Though what with the storm, choppers are likely to be absent for the next few hours, so what better time? Oh hey, mail! Hawkeye deposits his drink on the ground and practically skips to BJ. The box is noted but he assumes it's for Charles. "What did you bring me, huh, huh, what did you bring me, what did you bring me?" He tugs on BJ's sleeve, bouncing impatiently on his toes. Turning with a very Charles-snooty look on his face, Beej holds the mail away from Hawkeye. "Nuh-uh, make me a martini. You've got three letters so far that I've seen, and you're welcome to share whatever Peg's made me." He grins again, waving some envelopes at the other doctor. "If you move so I can get in the swamp and drop this stuff without doing anything bad to it, I might be persuaded to make my own martini." Whoa, three? That's two from Dad because one got caught in the mail, and...huh. Hawkeye makes a half-hearted attempt to grab the mail, but he doesn't mean it, and steps back with a bow to allow BJ past him. "Whatever you desire, O messenger of the gods." BJ Hunnicutt breezes past, the wings of...um, Isis, maybe? on his feet. Or something. Messenger-guy. Mercury, it could be supposed. Gleefully, he dumps the entirety of the mail on Hawkeye's bed and rifles through it, snagging two envelopes and the box. Then there's Hawkeye's stuff, and Charles'. Most of the stuff for Charles looks official - it's probably from banks or something. Ah the woes of the filthy rich. "Look!" he practically squeaks, waving one of his two envelopes around. "Look, it's addressed to 'Daddy Hunnicutt'! I mean, it's in Peg's handwriting, but I bet Erin saw Peg writing me and wanted to send her own...she's brilliant!" Three envelopes - from three different places, no less. One postmarked from Boston, one from New York, and one from Crabapple Cove. The one from Crabapple Cove's a given - the New York one has an unfamiliar handwriting, and the one from Boston's got handwriting that only a pharmacist or a postal worker could decipher. The letter from home is pounced on, the other two barely given a glance. Interesting, yes, but Dad is more important. "That's great, Beej." Hawkeye truly means it, ripping his letter open while being careful not to tear across the postmark. Dear Ben, blahblahblah, not much happening, usual stuff... "Looks like Susie Bennett finally got married, good for her. What's Erin say?" Skimreading, nothing drastic, the New York letter is the next to be picked up and examined. "She says...um...well, she drew me a picture, I think. Excellent choice in colors. Lots of green and orange and purple," replies BJ, squinting at a scribbled-upon piece of typing paper, holding it out at arm's length and then turning it the other way. "Thumbtacks. There've gotta be more thumbtacks around here somewhere..." The New York letter is typed, though quite messily. Inkblots here and there, mistyped letters, smudges, crooked lines, X'd out words - the whole deal. It's from John Yossarian, who quite cheerfully left off his rank. Apparently he -did- write to Daniel Pierce, but he's not sure if the letter'd got there yet; he's trying to pull strings to make life a little easier at the 4077th, even if he can't get anyone sent home. Especially since he's most emphatically a civilian now. The letter goes off into several rather bizarre tangents, but seems to be heartfelt and grateful, and apologetic. Sitting on the edge of his bunk, the letter from Crabapple Cove still clutched in one hand, Hawkeye reads the New York letter and smiles. A real, proper, hey look something went right smile. He hadn't expected it, and it's welcome. "Charles has tape somewhere." He glances up at the picture. "It's the ocean, Beej, and it's upside down." Duh. "Oh," says BJ, blinking, and turning it around. "You're right!" He steals Charles' tape and puts the drawing up on one of the tent poles on his side, right above a photo of Erin from a few months ago. He leaves the second envelope for after the package, and begins ripping the sucker open, wondering how happy his stomach is going to be (and how miserable his teeth) this time. ...FUDGE! And the enclosed note says some very interesting things, and notes that, "Ohh, hey, Peg says this is the first time she's tried this recipe. But come on, fudge is fudge. Have some!" It says some other things, but first, fudge. The Boston letter with the chickenscratch handwriting stares at Hawkeye. "Yeah, just a second, Beej." Boston. He doesn't really know anyone in Boston. Not anyone who'd write. Hawkeye sets the New York letter aside, then ever-so-carefully lays the letter from his father on top of it. He examines the handwriting. He knows lots of people with bad handwriting. He went to college with a whole bunch of doctors, after all. "If this is from Charles' mother I'll give him such a talking to," he mutters, and rips it open, this time careless of the postmark. Munch. Savor. Mmm. Bliss! Or as bliss as you can get in a MASH unit in Korea. BJ sets the fudge down on top of a pile of stuff and sits on the edge of his bed, reading the rest of his letter from Peg almost hungrily. And probably multiple times. Hey Hawk, the letter starts. That and the date, which is almost eight months ago. I know there's a lot of times you're busy, over there, but I know there's also a lot of times you have nothing better to do than set Frank on fire. So I was wondering why I hadn't heard from you. I gave your dad a ring to see if you'd got home, or if there'd been any news of you - he said you were all right, or as well as you could be. I knew what he meant. But before I called him, I didn't know if you were dead or alive. I got to thinking. Are you mad at me? Or do you really think I don't care if you lived or died? You know you were impossible to get hold of, and the chopper came so fast, I barely had time to get all my stuff together. And I wanted out so bad, I had to leave -then-, even though you were out on R&R... From there it goes on to describe the hospital Trapper's working at, and how different it is from the surgery at the 4077th; it tells how Louise is doing, and what a great new secretary he's got, and how good she is in bed. It talks about a few other inconsequential things, and then sort of putters a few times and gives up, and finishes with, 'I need to hear from you that you're all right. Please write me back, Hawk, even if you never want to hear from me again afterwards. Your friend, Trapper.' Skimming the letter, Hawkeye naturally goes right to the end to check out the signature. He lowers the letter and for a long, silent moment stares intently at the wall of the tent. Then, slowly, he lifts it again to check the date. And reads, settling back on his bunk and crossing his legs at the ankle. He reads the whole thing through once, slowly. Then he lowers the letter so it rests on his stomach and gazes blankly up at the ceiling. "She can't leave Erin with *Millie*, Millie'd give her booze to put her to sleep!" exclaims BJ finally, horrified expression on his face. "Or...or put her in the oven to keep her warm at night! Or..." He doesn't even notice Hawkeye's sudden silence. Sudden prolonged silence. He keeps reading the letter, and his expression finally relaxes. "Thank God. I knew Millie was a little funny upstairs, but I didn't know if Peg knew, and..." Beej glances up. "Hawkeye?" A beat. "...are you all right?" Not a word, not even a glance. Hawkeye acts as if he hasn't heard. Then, when it seems he isn't going to acknowledge BJ at all, he holds out a hand across the Swamp, the last page of Trapper's letter held so that the other doctor can read the signature. BJ stands up from the edge of his bed, his own letter in hand, and gets close enough to read it, and stops dead. Any number of wiseassed comments die in the back of his throat, and he straightens, just watching Hawkeye. Finally, levelly, he asks, "What does Trapper have to say?" 'For himself' is also left unsaid. The letter is returned to its resting place. Hawkeye links his fingers together on his stomach and does some serious examination of the Swamp's ceiling. "He's all right." A slight shrug. "Took a while to get here." "Ah," says BJ. That's it, just 'ah'. Once more, he's left without anything to say. Everything he can think of to say is either immature or selfish, and none of it would be at all helpful, so he just leaves Peg's letter on his pillow, grabs another piece of fudge, and picks up the other envelope. It's brown, with a typed address and stuff, so he stuffs it in his back pocket. "I'll leave you and Trapper alone." A beat. "I'll be at the Officers' Club." This is...confusing. Immensely so. Because Hawkeye is not the most mature person in the world and a large part of him is wanting to toss the damn letter in the trash, who does he think he is wanting me to reply, bastard, runs off like that. But then, it's Trapper, and they were friends, and he sounds so worried. Inner battle. "Wait, I'll go with you." Screw him anyway! Son of a bitch. Immaturity wins out. "You sure?" asks BJ, somewhat heavily. I'm the replacement. Is the replacement good enough? He hesitates in the doorway, a little bit of fudge on his mustache. "Where does he get off?" Hawkeye is going to be angry. "Where the hell does he get off? Oh sure, there wasn't time. Bastard." He looks very much as if he's going to rip the damn letter into bits. BJ finishes his fudge and stuffs his hands in his pockets. Who ever said red suspenders wouldn't go with a pink undershirt? He steps out the door and holds it open with his back. "Wasn't time for what?" he asks, trying not to sound petulant. "To leave you a note? You're right, he could've at least scribbled on a piece of paper in the Swamp." "Yeah." Hawkeye glares at the paper. But. But Trapper. He was a friend. He was someone to lean on. He was a familiar face here in this bizarre situation and he was an ally. Hawk makes no move to follow BJ. Turning to look at Hawkeye, BJ stops. There's a funny look on his face, like he doesn't know what to think. *He's* Hawkeye's friend. He's too mature, too grown up to feel threatened by a man thousands of miles away, isn't he? Or at least, when that man isn't anywhere near his wife. Finally, maturity wins out. "Listen, Hawk," he says quietly, "write him back. I'll be in the club when you're done, all right? You don't need me there for that. I'll drink the first round, and you can catch up." BJ gets a mildly surprised look, and outside, thunder growls. "Yeah." He's right and Hawkeye knows it. But it's still gonna take him hours to work out what to say. "Yeah. Thanks, Beej." "No prob," returns BJ, offering a shrug and a faint smile. "Take your time. You might have to drag me home if you're -too- long, though." With that, he turns again and sidles off to the Officers' Club. It's not exactly busy in the Officer's Club tonight. The oncoming storm, which is now beginning to send down driving rain, has kept people inside and grumpy with the oppressive heat. Seated at the piano, Father Mulcahy is playing a fairly perky and only slightly off-key version of 'My Blue Heaven'. Nobody's complaining because nobody has the energy. My Blue Heaven, huh? BJ dolefully orders a drink - nice double whiskey (all right, not so nice) - and walks over to the piano. Except it's not walking. The only word that can describe his mode of transportation, or whatever it is, is 'schlumpfing'. All the way across the room, and then he leans on the piano. "How about a little Blue Moon, Padre?" There is a moment's confusion where the two tunes collide. Father Mulcahy grimaces briefly. "Sorry, I was looking for a segue and I got a road accident." He starts up again, much more slowly. Blue moon, you saw me standing alone. "Where's Hawkeye?" BJ doesn't even seem to notice the train wreck. "He's in the Swamp with Trapper John MacIntyre," says the man, staring at his drink. Wow, jolt. Where'd that come from? Presumably there's a rational explanation - but BJ just tosses back some of that rotgut. There is a rather loud dischord. Father Mulcahy blinks owlishly at BJ for a long moment while everyone else in the club looks back to their drinks again. "Perhaps I didn't hear you," says the chaplain, slowly. "You heard me, Father. Hawk got a letter from Trapper," he says, swirling the drink around in his glass. Finally BJ looks up and continues quietly, "Which moved Trapper back in and me back out. Now, I know it's not like that. I know it. But how'm I supposed to react to that? For months he's been surly about Trapper, and all I heard about was Trapper, and Trapper got to go home, and Trapper didn't leave a note or anything...and this all changes because he got one letter, which coulda been backdated, for all I know?" Oh, right, a *letter*. That makes more sense. Mulcahy stands, to get a bit closer to BJ's level. He'll have to try and hint about wanting to know what was in the letter later. BJ probably doesn't need that right now. "And you *feel* like you've been replaced." "By a letter! I know, it sounds so childish," sighs BJ, looking at the piano keys and obviously not seeing them. "But I replaced Trapper. He was his friend first. He knew him even before Korea. What am I, some old married man who gloats over scribbles from his daughter and fudge from his wife - I can't replace Trapper." Oh dear. This is worse than he thought. "Is that how you think Hawkeye sees you?" Mulcahy pulls his glasses off and polishes them absently on his shirt. Wearing dark clothing is no fun in the hot weather. "I don't know, I can't read minds - that was the job of the -other- guy that got to go home. The one my little girl thought was her daddy," adds BJ bitterly, finishing off his double and looking positively mournful. "What's he need someone like -me- for? I'm not gonna ogle nurses with him when I have a beautiful wife to go home to. I can't build stills. And I'm not *funnier*, or *better* than Trapper. You remember the tongue depressor monument?" As he listens, Father Mulcahy's mild countenance shifts from gentle sympathy to gain just a hint of irritation. He's about to interrupt when BJ stops him with a question. "Yes, I remember." "You know what Hawkeye said before he started building that thing? He had some tongue depressors on a table, and he lined 'em all up. And he picked one up," BJ demonstrates with empty air, setting his glass down on top of the piano. "And he said Trapper John, and the next was Frank Burns, and then Henry Blake. And he said the only difference between Frank and Charles, when he switched depressors, was a hair. And me, he said, same size, same shape." He needs another drink. The chaplain exhales through his nose. This is going to be tricky. "I *also* remember that Hawkeye was not in the best of moods at the time." Mulcahy looks seriously up at BJ. "You know as well as I do that what he says is not always to be taken to heart." "Yeah, well, that's what I told myself at the time. It's a little harder when I see him like this," sighs BJ, picking up his glass again. "Lemme getcha a drink, Father. What'll y'have?" "I'll take lemonade, since you're offering." Mulcahy wanders alongside BJ as they head to the bar. "What did he say exactly? Tonight, I mean?" BJ seems very upset over all this. "A lemonade an' another double whiskey," says BJ, a veneer of sunshine over a storm as violent as the one outside. Leaning on the bar, he glances over to Father Mulcahy. "At first he didn't say anything. Just showed me who signed the damn thing. Then he was gonna come here with me, and he was mad, but then he changed his mind. I don't know what to think. It's killing him, Father! This schmuck has no *idea* what he did to Hawkeye!" So that's the root of this. Father Mulcahy pauses, frowning, and crosses his arms on the bar. They're a complicated and unpredictable bunch at the 4077th, but this he could almost have worked out in advance. "You're angry with Trapper because he hurt Hawkeye. Why did Hawkeye change his mind about being angry?" "I don't *know*!" exclaims BJ, almost in anguish. "He *should* be angry, after the guy pulled something like that. He was angry for months, and after one letter he's not, anymore?" He tosses back his entire double in one go, and sets it on the counter again, gesturing for another one. And then his face is in his hands and his elbows are stretched across the bar. "That guy did something like that, and I've been...but he doesn't need..." "He needs you." It's simply and quietly stated. Father Mulcahy watches BJ, his expression all genuine concern. "What's he need me for when he's got his backstabbing buddy back in his good graces?" asks BJ under his breath. "Trapper is in *Boston*." Father Mulcahy shakes his head, trying to keep exasperation out of his tone. "You're jumping to conclusions. We all have friends who are thousands of miles away. What matters is who's around *now*." He reaches to rest a hand on BJ's arm. "You're the one who catches him when he stumbles, BJ." BJ's silent for a long moment, staring at his still-empty glass, watching as it's refilled, not seeing it. Tracing patterns on the countertop with the hand attached to the arm Mulcahy's got, head resting in his other hand, he finally says very quietly, "I guess I am. And I guess I'm not drunk enough to complain about what's not fair in the middle of a war, huh?" "What would you have him do?" Father Mulcahy's voice remains gentle, his hand light on the doctor's arm. "If Hawkeye can forgive, perhaps you can, too?" "Yeah," comes the mumbled answer, but Beej adds, still frustrated, "I just wish Trapper *knew* what he did. Hawkeye's not gonna tell him." A beat. "Maybe I should write him, huh? No, I shouldn't, if Hawk's not gonna tell then I have no right to..." Ah morals. Tear ya apart, don't they? Faith goes a long way, though. "The best we can do for Hawkeye is support him." The chaplain shrugs lightly, and finally takes his hand back. "His pain is his business unless he asks for our help. You know that." "Yeah. So I better go back to pretending I don't notice," sighs BJ, tossing back his third double, and standing a little unsteadily. "Thanks, Father." A pause, as he's digging through his pockets, and then paying for the drinks. Then he leaves an extra twenty on the bar. "This is for when Hawkeye comes in later. And don't think I won't know if you pocket it," he tells the bartender, concentrating so hard on what he's saying that he doesn't notice he's starting to fall. Recovering at the last second, he turns back to Father Mulcahy and looks apologetic. "Betcha hear all sides, huh? I mean it, thanks." Profoundly unhappy about BJ's troubles, Mulcahy nonetheless smiles at the surgeon. "Any time. You know that, too." Offering a tilty mock-salute, BJ nods, and doesn't manage to keep his relatively neutral expression all the way through turning around to head for the door, and the tail end of hurt is visible. He's going off to brood for a while, somewhere off where he can't embarrass himself. It's the next morning, and by the time BJ got home, Hawkeye was actually asleep. The letters from yesterday are still piled carefully beside his bunk, the one from Daniel Pierce uppermost. Today has dawned bright and still rather too hot, though the oppressive heat has at least left the atmosphere. Everything feels cleaner. Charles and Potter are in OR with a couple of patients, but the expected influx never materialized and the camp is in a good mood. Good enough that Hawkeye, who has been up for two hours now and is feeling ridiculously chipper, is making good progress with the temporarily-assigned brunette on exchange from the 8055th. Chatting idly by the signpost, he says something that makes her laugh, loud enough to be audible inside. 'Dirty rotten no-good best friend' is the thought running through BJ's head, which is under his pillow, and which isn't thick enough to prevent the splitting of his cranium with an at-other-times delightful laugh. He digs under his bed with one hand and finds a shoe, which he hauls back and chucks at the door with a snarl. The door, being a lot bigger than the shoe, only opens enough to deposit the shoe outside with a rather pathetic plop. The chatter is momentarily silenced while both parties blink at the shoe. "It's worse than I thought," remarks Hawkeye, "he's going AWOL one piece at a time." The girl finds this inordinately amusing, and her giggles trail off in highly suggestive mumbles. The least Hawkeye could do is go away, or go away and get some aspirin and then go away. But no. Giggle, wisecrack, giggle, wisecrack. When did BJ turn into a cranky old man? This only sends him further along the downward spiral of self-pity, irritability, and anger. You know, the thought that normally he could care less. "Can't a man get some peace?" he finally yells, then groans. "My head..." Whatever Hawkeye is up to out there, he almost certainly shouldn't be and the yell from within only confirms that. A murmured conversation involving the words 'officers' club', 'after my shift' and 'yes' ensues, and it's a still relentlessly upbeat Hawkeye who peeks his head cautiously around the door of the Swamp. "You're not gonna throw the other one, are you?" "Only if you keep yelling," moans Beej, muffled, head once more ducking beneath his pillow. "Do we have any aspirin? We have to, we're a hospital, for cryin' out loud..." "But you don't want anyone to be cryin' out loud." Hawkeye steps inside and wags a reproachful finger at BJ. "And just *what* time and *how* drunk did you stagger in last night, young man?" "What do you care?" mutters the hungover surgeon almost inaudibly, emphatically slamming his arms on the edges of his pillow to keep it down. If he's lucky, he can suffocate himself. "Uh-oh. You haven't hit puberty, have you? We'll have to get Radar to talk you through it." Hawkeye flops contentedly down on his bunk and thinks of the nurses. "If you're not going to go away, then get me some aspirin," mumbles BJ, gritting his teeth. Head. Ow. My head. Hurts, it does. Ow. Ouch, head, mine. My head hurts. It's going to implode. "And very, on both counts." Drunk and late. "You didn't even finish all that fudge Peg sent you." Hawkeye's tone suggests this is a heinous crime. "You didn't even give me any." Oh, that's just...oh, *boy*. BJ finally sits up, laboriously, and there's a look *so* dark on his face. "I *told* you to help yourself, Hawkeye. *You* said just a minute. And then *you* forgot about the fudge." He gets to his feet, snatching his robe - which isn't hot or terrycloth, you know, like Hawk's red one - off its hook and putting it on, then rooting around for aspirin. Blink. Hawkeye doesn't miss the dark look and for a moment, he's genuinely confused, his brain pulling that neat double-blind it likes to do every so often. What's he talking ab- oh. Yeah. "What's wrong?" Honestly baffled. Why is *BJ* upset? "Nothing!" answers BJ, adopting that tone he does when there's something very wrong, but he's not quite with-it enough to be able to handle sarcasm. "Have some fudge, Hawkeye! It's fantastic. _Damn_ it, where's the aspirin?" "Oh, sure, nothing. Fine. I'll get you some aspirin." Hawkeye rolls off his bunk and stalks over to Charles' footlocker, pauses to retrieve the key from the shelf above, and crouches to unlock it. "What'd Peg say that's got you so wound up?" It better not be the gutters again. "Nothing, everything's great. She -didn't- get Millie to babysit, Erin is fine, her mother's being especially nice to her..." recites BJ, almost like a litany of pleasant-ness. He's holding his head. Ow. Good grief, this is overdoing it, this hangover. He should've had some water with his booze. Rosie's was nice and empty and welcoming to a drenched doctor who didn't want any more good advice. "I'm *perfectly* all right. *I'M* perfectly all right." There, he's perfectly all right. Jeez. Hawkeye rifles through Charles' footlocker, not bothering to cover his tracks. He passes up a tub of aspirin. "So what's the problem, Beej? Aside from the way your head is glowing." Scarfing a couple down with a little rotgut-of-the-dog, so to speak, Beej just stands there for a second, holding the bottle. Then, "Thanks," he says, and puts the lid back on, passing it back. "I haven't got a problem," he says unconvincingly. "How are -you-, huh? That was some bombshell. You looked worse than our last batch of wounded." "Me? I'm fine." Hawkeye relocks Charles' footlocker and deposits the key in a spot on the shelf which is emphatically *not* the spot he got it from. "It was a surprise. Fleet Mail needs to get its act together." "Yeah," says BJ, "yeah, it does." He looks away, over at the still. Trapper's still. And he picks up his inherited martini glass, and he pours himself a glass of inherited rice gin - yeah, another this morning - and holds it up. "To tongue depressors and bricks," he says. ...huh. Hawkeye stands, finally, and sticks his hands in his pockets. Head tilted, dogtags dangling, he looks entirely disreputable and entirely confused. "What are you getting at?" Tossing back the paint thinner, Beej grins at Hawkeye. God what a sick grin. "You shoulda asked me when I was drunk. Hey tell me, if I was a real jerk to you, would you forgive me? Hypothetically." Hawkeye stares. "Are we talking taking my toothpaste without asking, or shooting my dog, or..." Two drinks and he's feeling a little reckless. But it takes a piece of Peg's fudge to push him over the edge. "We're talking," he says, stuffing a piece in his mouth belligerently, "deserting you here. Hypothetically." Oh *sure*. Hawkeye points a finger. "Don't start with that." "Have some fudge," says BJ, on the edge of getting mad again, "dammit. I'm not starting anything. How about this? Supposing I *did* get sent home before you, by some bizarre twist of fate. Would the next guy along just fill *my* boots?" Oh, okay, you do not want to go there, my friend. Hawkeye *glares*, anger flaring visibly in the faded-denim eyes. "*What*?!" No, this is -exactly- where BJ needs to go. Though he could have done it a lot more subtly, and with more tact. Or he coulda taken Father Mulcahy's word for it. This is what Hawkeye gets for not letting him be hungover in peace. "Maybe Trapper wants his martini glass back. Should I mail it to him? Did he miss it?" "I - I cannot believe we're even having this conversation." Hawkeye turns about and unless BJ stops him, he's slamming out of the Swamp and stalking towards Pre-Op. Oh, crap. He overshot. He more than overshot. And now he's feeling the effect of that much alcohol, with alcohol to cure it in the morning. BJ looks abject, but then he looks even worse, and he stumbles out the door after Hawkeye and staggers around the side of the tent, where he noisily evacuates his stomach. Aspirin and all. Paused on the way to Pre-Op by the unpleasant noises behind him, Hawkeye comes to a stop, seething. And turns around and goes back, reaching a hand for BJ's back. "Are you all right?" Short. Angry. But concerned. "I thig I'b still drung," replies BJ thickly, muffled, on his hands and knees. "Sorry, Hawguy...don'..." Don't know what got into me. No, I do. But I had no right... "That's okay, Beej." No it isn't, it's not okay at all. How could he imply that? How could he even think it? Hawkeye is genuinely hurt. Like it's a revolving door or some damn thing, like he doesn't even care or notice the difference. Yeah, well, maybe that's how it feels sometimes. "No," says BJ, getting unsteadily to his feet once more, looking incredibly ill. "No, it's not nothing for me and it's not okay for you." It's not, you're right. But it's not, on either end. Also, Beej is very sick, and trying to blunder back into the swamp to go to bed. "Bad time." "Yeah. Go back to bed." Hawkeye gets out of his way, returning his hands to his pockets. He's got that look. Very Serious. ----- Epilogue ----- Tugging off his mask and gloves and collapsing in the corner of the room next to the OR, BJ doesn't take his apron off yet. Nor his ill-fitting Stupid White Hat. He'd been silent during the entire thing, except for what he had to say, or answering questions, or what-have-you. Not one single crack, not one single jibe, just business. Finally he takes off the hat and pitches it across the room, into the laundry bag. And now he's working on his apron, moving like an old man. Angst. Guilt. Stupidity. Brood. How could he have pulled something like that on Hawkeye, even when hung over and still drunk, for the most part? Especially considering what started it. He's not talking to me. That's real mature. Hawkeye is ticked. And while anger in the abstract, general, twisted-around sense is very much a part of his character, this irritation with somebody he's very fond of is alien. It unsettles him. Exiting the OR, the Mainer is already free of hat and gloves, the mask pulled down around his neck. "That wasn't so bad," he remarks. "That last guy could've gotten by without us. We're going soft." It's not that he isn't talking to Hawkeye. It's that he has no idea what to say. He can respond. He just can't...initiate. Joke. Nothing. Beej gives Hawkeye a faint grin, "I'm sure he'd tell you differently. And emphatically." "Why do you think we anaesthetize? It's not for *their* benefit, y'know." Hawkeye takes a seat next to BJ and gazes musingly off into the middle distance for a moment. "Lots of ways I'd rather go deaf," observes BJ, wadding up his apron and chucking it, too, into the laundry. He's silent for a moment, again, then notes flatly, "I was drunk. But it's no excuse." Apparently having forgotten about the bloodiness of his clothing, Hawkeye leans back, crossing his legs at the ankle, and tries to work out a kink in his shoulder. "What worries me is that you really think that's how my mind works." "Only twice," confesses BJ. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, back bent. "Just twice. And the first time I shouldn't'a paid attention, and the second time - this time - I was just...it was stupid. I'm sorry." Shoulda listened to Father Mulcahy. "I don't want an apology, BJ." Hawkeye likewise sits forward, turning his head to look at his friend. "Just what did you think was going on there? What do you think, I've been marking time for Trapper the last year and a half? For God's sake." He sounds faintly disgusted, but mostly upset. "I don't know!" exclaims BJ, exhaling through shut teeth. "I wasn't thinking. No, no...I didn't think that, though. I don't know. I'm not the same damn shape and size. I know it. You know it. But you said it." So long ago, in a moment of weakness and depression. "I should've ignored it, I know you didn't mean it." Blink. "That was...you remembered that?" That was just something he said. He was down, he was weak and he regretted it soon after. Hawkeye stares at BJ. "I didn't...you think I think this is all some kind of a revolving door? Do you think I equate Charles with Frank? Or Potter with *Henry*?" Volume rising, he's upset. "No, that's not it, I--" BJ shuts up as a nurse comes through, slumping down against the wall, miserable look on his face. "God knows Charles is nothing like Frank, and from what I gather I'm nothing like Trapper, thank goodness, and I know enough about Henry Blake to know he was nothing like Potter. I *told* you I didn't know. I don't know, Hawkeye! I don't know. It was hard to hear but I thought I forgot it. Come on, I know you better than that. I wasn't thinking at all." "You're damn right you weren't thinking. How could you even..." Hawkeye is badly upset at BJ's apparent lack of faith in him. He relies on BJ to know who he is, so that when he forgets, there's a reminder. "I thought you knew me." You're there to catch him when he stumbles, BJ. You're relied on to know who Hawkeye is, to remind him when he forgets. You've got the responsibility of keeping your best friend's sanity intact, BJ, that's quite a load. And you just dropped it, didn't you? You just dropped it and ran for the hills. When he's finishes digging the heels of his palms into his eyes, BJ turns his head and stares at the wall, face red and infinitely tired. "It wasn't me not knowing you." A beat. "It was me not knowing me." "I just, I, I th-thought, I thought you." Hawkeye pauses, not trailing off, but just stalled as he often is in these situations, stammering to a halt. He tries again. "I'm *sorry* I said that, BJ. Back then. I didn't mean it. You *know* that." You know that, right, you know that? "I *know* that," asserts Beej, finally looking back at Hawkeye, eyes as apologetic as they are tired. "And...and." Come on, this is Hawk. You can tell him this stuff, it'll make him understand. No, no it won't! It'll make him feel guilty, and make you look stupid and weak, and. And this is Hawkeye, and he needs to know it wasn't him. "I'm just...look, it's really dumb, Hawk, okay? I know it doesn't work this way at all, but sometimes I just wonder if I'm good enough. For Peg, for you, for Erin, hell - for all our wounded kids when they come in there." There, it's said. One of three roots. The one that has nothing to do with Hawkeye, and everything to do with some of that magnificently passionate anger. Oh. *Oh*. Well that makes sense. Coming from BJ it's a little weird, but it makes sense because everyone feels that way sometimes. "You've always been good enough for me, Beej. Always. Finest kind," Hawkeye adds with a deliberate grin. Darn Californian anyway. "Everyone gets those thoughts sometimes." It might be a little weird, sure. Because he's never out and said it at all. But come on - if he thought he was good enough for Peg, he'd find something else to channel his anger into, he wouldn't get jealous of people he has no access to and no reason to be jealous of. If he thought he was good enough - but enough of that. Did it - Hawkeye looks okay. Or like he might be okay, anyway. "Yeah. I'm just sorry you had to be on the receiving end." Hesitant smile. Still so tired, and this time it's honest exhaustion. As okay as it gets. Course one day soon he'll have to actually write back to Trapper, but for now Hawkeye is utilising his usual survival method and dealing with it by not dealing with it. Deny, ignore, repress, forget. "That's okay." He watches his friend, troubled. "You should get some rest, BJ." Good grief. Make a mess, you'd better be damn sharp about cleaning it up. A disaster possibly averted, and more than a few lives saved. Bit of a full day, that. BJ yawns and nods. "Yeah," he says through the yawn, and gets slowly to his feet. "I'm gonna go get out of these grubby clothes, take a shower, and collapse." He doesn't want to press his luck and ask anything. "Yeah, good idea." Hawkeye stands and heads slowly for the doors. "Course I have to meet the delightful Susan in half an hour, so don't wait up for me, Honey-cutt." "I couldn't even if I could," laughs BJ, holding the door open, and yawning again. "On second thought, the shower can wait until morning. See you when I'm human." He heads out into the quiet night, back toward the Swamp. "I don't have that kinda time, Beej." Hawkeye makes for the showers. BJ Hunnicutt says "That kinda time?" BJ Hunnicutt says "D'oh!" Hawkeye pats.:) Hawkeye says "You have to expect me to jump on opportunities if you're just gonna leave them sitting there like that.:)" From off in the darkness, there's the sound of BJ stopping, then dramatically facepalming. "I'll get you for that!" he calls, laughing. Yeah. When he can think of a damn comeback. Hawkeye says "I don't have THAT kinda time either.;)" BJ Hunnicutt says "Bastard! :D" Hawkeye examines fingernails.:) BJ Hunnicutt says "Oh, you wait. You just wait. ;)" BJ Hunnicutt says "When you -least- expect it. ;D" Hawkeye says "I will. I'll wait. And wait. And wait..." Hawkeye says "And wait. And wait."