M*A*S*H fic: When Harold Met George
4/29/06
When Harold Met George
Written By Lee
Disclaimer: Not mine, no money made.
Pairing(s): BJ/Hawkeye
Characters: BJ and Hawkeye
Spoilers: Life Time
Warning: Slash
Rating: Pre-teen (or whatever heck the ratings we have to use now are)
Dedication: To Lisa murf1013, because she is the straight female BJ (she’s the married one here folks) to my straight female Hawkeye and I love her.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~
You stumble into the Swamp too exhausted (emotionally and physically) to make it your bunk and collapse onto Hawkeye’s cot instead. With what little energy you possess, you crawl along its length until your head hits Hawkeye’s pillow and your body collapses into the thin mattress that’s molded into his shape. His smell wafts around you, teasing you with its heady mixture of bitter (booze), sweet (Charles’ stolen aftershave) and copper (blood).
You inhale deeply trying to find solace in the scent, but all you find is the image of Harold. (Most of his head gone and a death rattle you’ll never forget.) And of his friend laying by his side until the last moment. His friend (lover? you wonder) has only a picture now of two bright, too young boys clinging to each other in a foreign land. They’re both dead now, you think. Harold’s dead in body and his friend (lover) is dead in soul.
Your arm reaches out, suddenly and blindly, going right to the resting place of the precise thing you need. Fingertips find it and pull it hastily towards you as you roll you head towards the table holding the still. Your eyes crack open and you smile at Hawkeye’s predictability and sentiment. The photograph you hold is the one you knew would be there. Hawk’s favorite of the two of you. You both walking away from the camera, your arms slung around one another’s shoulders and your heads tilted down in conspiracy. Klinger took the picture when neither of you even knew he had a camera, and when he developed them in the x-ray lab, he gave you each a copy (saying he just thought it seemed like you.) Your copy is tucked between a picture of your wife and your child in your back pocket. But Hawk, in a fit of uncharacteristically sober emotion, lovingly framed it and placed it next to his cot.
Your fingers trace over the glass, following the jagged line that your arms make crossing one another’s bodies.
What, if like Harold’s friend, this was all you had left of Hawkeye? What, if like you, some surgeon had used a part of Hawkeye’s heart to make another man live? What, if like Harold, Hawkeye’s aorta carried blood to a body that wasn’t his own?
Your tears don’t start gently. No, you are wracked without warning by sobs that seem unending. (One tear for Harold, for his friend, and even for George. A million more for you, for Hawkeye, and for each other.)
The hand on your back and the dip at the side of the cot don’t startle you. You could tell from the shift in the air, the increased scent of copper that Hawkeye was there long before he sat down; longer before he started rubbing your back; longer still before he covered your hand that held the photo with his own.
You roll to your side. (Accomplishing two things: allowing you to see him better and allowing him to slide further back on the cot and press his tense back to your knotted stomach.) You lay like that forever, his arm wrapped around you as he rubs your back, your legs curled up just enough to be wrapped around his form, and your hands wrapped together around the picture.
When your sobs die down to hiccups, he speaks, “I’m so sorry, Beej. I’m so sorry you had to wait with Harold and that… I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t leave me,” you whisper, wrapping your body around him tighter.
“I won’t,” his hand moves from your back to your face. “Potter’s taking post-op and Charles is still flat on his back from being noble.”
You sit up, a tangle of arms wrapping around one another, “Not tonight, ever.” You hope you’ve made your meaning clear, but you doubt it.
But you should know better than to doubt Hawkeye.
His hands come to your face, pulling you gently back; far enough to stare in your eyes. He whispers one word, “Never,” before slipping one hand down to cover your heart, while the other hand slips behind your head and pulls your mouth to his.
He starts to kiss you slow and sweet, but you need more. You need heat and passion and life, (his heat, his passion and his life) to make you remember (not forget) that life continues. You lower both of you to his cot, your mouth seared together in a bruising kiss.
Your eyes slip close, reveling in the feeling of Hawkeye’s hand and lips.
As your bodies move together, your mind returns to George, the man with part of another man’s heart in his. You realize how much you have in common with him. Hawkeye’s held both of your hearts in his hands (emotionally and physically). Hawkeye’s healed you both.
And when you go home, you’ll both carry a part of another man’s heart in yours.
When Harold Met George
Written By Lee
Disclaimer: Not mine, no money made.
Pairing(s): BJ/Hawkeye
Characters: BJ and Hawkeye
Spoilers: Life Time
Warning: Slash
Rating: Pre-teen (or whatever heck the ratings we have to use now are)
Dedication: To Lisa murf1013, because she is the straight female BJ (she’s the married one here folks) to my straight female Hawkeye and I love her.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~
You stumble into the Swamp too exhausted (emotionally and physically) to make it your bunk and collapse onto Hawkeye’s cot instead. With what little energy you possess, you crawl along its length until your head hits Hawkeye’s pillow and your body collapses into the thin mattress that’s molded into his shape. His smell wafts around you, teasing you with its heady mixture of bitter (booze), sweet (Charles’ stolen aftershave) and copper (blood).
You inhale deeply trying to find solace in the scent, but all you find is the image of Harold. (Most of his head gone and a death rattle you’ll never forget.) And of his friend laying by his side until the last moment. His friend (lover? you wonder) has only a picture now of two bright, too young boys clinging to each other in a foreign land. They’re both dead now, you think. Harold’s dead in body and his friend (lover) is dead in soul.
Your arm reaches out, suddenly and blindly, going right to the resting place of the precise thing you need. Fingertips find it and pull it hastily towards you as you roll you head towards the table holding the still. Your eyes crack open and you smile at Hawkeye’s predictability and sentiment. The photograph you hold is the one you knew would be there. Hawk’s favorite of the two of you. You both walking away from the camera, your arms slung around one another’s shoulders and your heads tilted down in conspiracy. Klinger took the picture when neither of you even knew he had a camera, and when he developed them in the x-ray lab, he gave you each a copy (saying he just thought it seemed like you.) Your copy is tucked between a picture of your wife and your child in your back pocket. But Hawk, in a fit of uncharacteristically sober emotion, lovingly framed it and placed it next to his cot.
Your fingers trace over the glass, following the jagged line that your arms make crossing one another’s bodies.
What, if like Harold’s friend, this was all you had left of Hawkeye? What, if like you, some surgeon had used a part of Hawkeye’s heart to make another man live? What, if like Harold, Hawkeye’s aorta carried blood to a body that wasn’t his own?
Your tears don’t start gently. No, you are wracked without warning by sobs that seem unending. (One tear for Harold, for his friend, and even for George. A million more for you, for Hawkeye, and for each other.)
The hand on your back and the dip at the side of the cot don’t startle you. You could tell from the shift in the air, the increased scent of copper that Hawkeye was there long before he sat down; longer before he started rubbing your back; longer still before he covered your hand that held the photo with his own.
You roll to your side. (Accomplishing two things: allowing you to see him better and allowing him to slide further back on the cot and press his tense back to your knotted stomach.) You lay like that forever, his arm wrapped around you as he rubs your back, your legs curled up just enough to be wrapped around his form, and your hands wrapped together around the picture.
When your sobs die down to hiccups, he speaks, “I’m so sorry, Beej. I’m so sorry you had to wait with Harold and that… I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t leave me,” you whisper, wrapping your body around him tighter.
“I won’t,” his hand moves from your back to your face. “Potter’s taking post-op and Charles is still flat on his back from being noble.”
You sit up, a tangle of arms wrapping around one another, “Not tonight, ever.” You hope you’ve made your meaning clear, but you doubt it.
But you should know better than to doubt Hawkeye.
His hands come to your face, pulling you gently back; far enough to stare in your eyes. He whispers one word, “Never,” before slipping one hand down to cover your heart, while the other hand slips behind your head and pulls your mouth to his.
He starts to kiss you slow and sweet, but you need more. You need heat and passion and life, (his heat, his passion and his life) to make you remember (not forget) that life continues. You lower both of you to his cot, your mouth seared together in a bruising kiss.
Your eyes slip close, reveling in the feeling of Hawkeye’s hand and lips.
As your bodies move together, your mind returns to George, the man with part of another man’s heart in his. You realize how much you have in common with him. Hawkeye’s held both of your hearts in his hands (emotionally and physically). Hawkeye’s healed you both.
And when you go home, you’ll both carry a part of another man’s heart in yours.