Playing House

BJ/Hawkeye
Current Rating: NC-17 (finally, I know!)


Playing House
Chapter Four: Cleaning


As BJ left the room, Hawkeye turned to the stove. He flipped off the heat with more aggression than the small knobs deserved. He rattled the two pots, shifting them off the burners, and, slipping on a flowered potholder, he took the pan from the oven, letting it drop noisily against the stove top. Discarding the potholder, he turned to get plates. The first two cabinets yielded various food items, and he shut them with hurried force. He knew he had seen plates somewhere. Another failure. Another loud closure. Plates, plates, plates, his head repeated, the mantra forcing out any other thought that might attempt to intrude.

Finally locating the perfect stacks of dishware in the right most cabinet near the refrigerator, he took out two of the largest size and set them on the cabinet next to the stove, but then the will to continue seemed to go out of him. His fisted hands pressed on the edge of the cabinet, his back hunched over them, as if he was willing himself to disappear completely. He stared intently at the china pattern, a rose in dusty blue, the same color as Peg’s dress. It must be her favorite, he thought. An image of a blue robe that BJ had worn assaulted him, and he wondered for the first time if the article had held some acknowledged link between the two of them. He remembered it as ever-present, tossed about the Swamp, hanging in the shower, shoved onto the shelf in OR, caught under a sweating body on a narrow cot.

He took a breath and was surprised to find that it shuddered out of his body. He shook his head vigorously, trying to get it together before the other returned. BJ had obviously made a mistake, and he had, Hawkeye thought, stopped just in time, using drinks as an excuse to escape the awkward situation. The best thing then would be to pretend it never happened. That was something Hawkeye was in fact excellent at. Lots of things that had happened to him had never happened.

He stood up straight, pushed his hair from his eyes, and, taking a calmer breath, began to shovel generous portions of food onto the plates. He set them on the table, on one side, next to each other, then reconsidered. Separating the two plates, he settled them on either side of the table, then back, then apart again, looking for the world as if he were playing some depleted shell game with only two pieces. Finally he decided on leaving them in the middle of the table and letting BJ decide.

The latter returned baring martinis, one clear glass each hand. Hawkeye looked not at him, but at the shifting liquid in the glasses. Now that looked like salvation, clear drink swishing almost to the rim, as full as possible, with a green olive settled into the gentle curve of the glass, promising if not forgiveness than at least forgetfulness.

“Two of the driest martinis ever made this side of the pacific,” he pronounced, settling them on that able. One the same side, Hawkeye noted, only a foot and a half apart. Still, he stood stiffly across the table, wanting nothing more than to lunge for the alcohol but hesitant to come too close to BJ. It’s not like he’s going to kiss you again: his mind supplied the thought ruefully, but that was the very information that he dreaded. Finally he told that part of him to shut up and sat down to pacify it with gin.

They sat side by side, twisting spaghetti onto their forks and generally trying not to make a mess. BJ talked easily of nothing much, and Hawkeye responded somewhat listlessly, silently commending BJ on his own pretending nothing happened skills.

For his part, BJ seemed fine, and was more genuinely so than Hawkeye. He ate his fill, going back for seconds, and praising his friend’s culinary prowess. When the last did not merit a sarcastic comment or batting of eyes in imitation of a rather masculine housewife, he instigated true conversatory tactics: he dredged up the past--in a good way, of course.

“You know what I miss?”

“If you say the food, I’m going to be highly insulted,” he didn’t look up from his half-full plate where he was using his fork to push the contents from one side to the other, watching the red sauce make patterns against the white and blue and thinking of something less than appetizing.

“No, I’m not that much of a masochist.” He took a bite of browned bread as if to prove his point, proceeding to talk around the mouthful. “I miss Margaret.”

“Half the army misses Hot Lips.”

“Or at least her hot lips,” he paused to chuckle at his own clever retort; it was more of a novelty now, born of a skill that he didn‘t get to use much at the hospital. Hawkeye seemed to bring that out in him. “I don’t so much miss the lips, but the fights. Boy, do I miss the fights.”

“When we replaced her peroxide with blue dye.”

“Remember when he stole her clothes from the shower? She had to run with nothing but a washcloth all the way to her tent.”

“Remember when we stole her tent?”

“The look on her face!” They both laughed, at memories of her astonished face when she pulled to a halt in front of the bare bones of what had been her tent, but even more at the hard work and planning that had gone into it. Even Charles helped.

That led to talk of the here and now of the other occupants of the camp. Dinner was finished and dirty dishes dumped into the sink before they adjourned to the living room. BJ switched on the small television, turning the knob to channel four and leaving the volume on low for background noise as they sat on the couch and combined their knowledge. Margaret was still in the army, so was Frank, though no where near each other as far as they knew. Charles was at Boston, succeeding fantastically and no doubt haughtily. Klinger was happily married in Toledo, with a little one well on the way. Hawkeye suggested that if it was a boy they should send it a nice dress.

“And if it’s a girl?”

“A shaving kit, of course.”

“Why?”

“Well, she’s gonna need it if she takes after Klinger!”

Potter was at home, and Radar reported that he had recently acquired two more young horses and was thinking of breaking them himself. The former clerk himself was reportedly dating “a real nice gal”; Hawkeye thought she was a blond, but BJ had heard brunette.

“What about Sidney?” BJ asked without thinking.

“You haven’t heard from him?”

“Nope.”

“Huh,” he pushed himself to his feet, feeling the room sway around him more than he had expected it to. He took BJ’s empty glass and padded across the room to refill it for the, uh, well he would call it the seventh time, only for the sake of calling. “I suppose I’m the only one he checks up on.”

BJ couldn’t see his face, so he watched his taut back and debated if he wanted to push the issue. He decided he didn’t. He stretched and settled further back on the couch as the other put the glass, now full, back in his hand. He tasted it, jerking back a bit. He wasn’t sure Hawkeye had added anything but gin to the supposed cocktail.

“What about Trapper?”

Batting o-for-two he decided by the look on Hawkeye’s face and the way drank deeply, putting the gin away as it were water; BJ was glad he wasn’t counting anymore.

“Haven’t heard from him.”

“Huh. Well, that only leaves one more. What’s Dr. Benjamin Franklin Pierce doing these days?”

Being almost, well, he’d like to say almost, drunk, he found that rather entertaining; the aforementioned, and equally embalmed, Pierce apparently found it confusing. He turned on the couch, bending one knee so that he could shift to face BJ.

“I already told you that.”

“No,” he raised a finger on his free hand, “you told me about your work. I wanna hear about you.” He poked the finger at Hawkeye’s chest, barely pressing, just enough to feel the warmth just below the shirt.

“Me? What’s there to know about me? No, I suggested we pick a more interesting subject--singers, songwriters, sex enthusiasts.”

“I’ll take what’s behind door number three.”

“Uh-oh, that’s the booby prize.”

“So we are gonna talk about you!”

“Alright, you cornered me. What do you want to know? Wait…I think I need another drink first.”

He wobbled again to the bottles, then, with an ingenuity that at that point surprised a rather wasted BJ, brought the gin back with him. He handed it over, made another trip back for the other and then another for the jar of olives. BJ found himself twisted on the couch, his back against the arm, legs folded and his arms laden with glass, bottles, and jar as Hawkeye took a seat facing him again. The dark haired man took the gin, pouring it liberally into his own glass and then BJ’s. The vermouth was forgotten as he purloined the jar of olives, settling it between his Indian style legs and popping the lid. Using two fingers, he fished an olive from the jar and plopped it into BJ’s glass, then one into his own, then one into his mouth, licking his fingers in a careless way, completely unaware of the stare his was getting and ought to have, by all right’s of his previous torments, been relishing.

“Now that,” he said around the olive, “is the driest martini in town.” He lifted the glass in a toast, but then couldn’t think of anything to say.

“To old friends,” BJ thought for a second, “and ferret-face, too.”

The glasses clinked. After taking a drink, Hawkeye fished out another olive. BJ made a face at him, and taking it out of mouth, Hawkeye them offered it to him.

“I’ll pass.”

“Suit yourself.”

“So, tell me of Dr. Pierce.”

“Tell you what?”

BJ seriously doubted he had forgotten where the conversation had been headed prior to the relocation of the alcohol.

“Come on. How are you?”

“Oh, I’m just great. Grand, spiffy, magnificent even.”

“Somebody keeping you out of trouble?” And out of your own head, BJ added silently, remembering the far-off looks he had so commonly been forced to interpret as Hawkeye beating himself up on the inside. What had he called it: thinking too much, or was it too fast?

“I resemble that remark.” Drunk or not, he was not going to acknowledge that, especially not with Sidney’s phone calls recently revealed as a periodic check-up of his sanity rather than friendly chats bestowed upon the company en masse.

“Hm,” he said noncommittally, swirling his glass. “You got a girl?”

“Oh, I get lots of girls.” It wasn’t exactly a lie.

“Keep any of ‘em?”

“Dad doesn’t like me to keep pets.”

“Come on. You doing alright? Seriously?”

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just…nothing, Beej. I’m great, okay?”

BJ nodded. Slowly he placed his half-full glass on the coffee table, next the two bottle and, though he was hesitant to relinquish it, Hawkeye’s glass. Hawkeye was blinking at him, suddenly serious, trying to figure out why he was being cut off. He assumed that he had done something, though he wasn’t sure what it was. Then BJ was taking the olive jar, plucking it expertly from between his legs, but not without brushing one khaki-clad thigh, rather high up if the tingling sensation now spreading there was any indication.

BJ scooted forward, occupying the middle cushion and staring intently into blue eyes.

“Hawkeye,” he swallowed.

“Uh-huh?” His voice was deeper than it normally was, drawing heaviness from his body and from the air around them. BJ leaned forward, his breath warm on Hawkeye’s ear.

“Hawk, I…” Then the lips were too close, touching, just there under his ear. Then on his cheek, half kiss and half shaking exhalation of breath. Strong hands gripped his shoulder almost too tightly, but whatever pain was there was swept aside when BJ’s lips covered his own for the second time that day. There wasn’t any gentleness. Their tongues met as their chests pressed against each other, and Hawkeye’s hands touched whatever they could find: face, sides, waist, legs, moving rapidly from one to the other as if it were their last chance to feel it.

But this time BJ didn’t stop. When his lips lifted to give them breath they were soon reapplied to Hawkeye’s neck, catching a strip of sensitive flesh between them. He applied suction to the place then caught it between his teeth, drawing a gasp and a clench of hands clinging to his forearms. There was something desperate in both their actions, accented greatly by time of certain abstinence and not a little by the alcohol they had consumed.

BJ shifted his weight onto Hawkeye, forcing the other man to recline slightly and attacking his neck further. BJ wanted to move his hands, to get under some of the clothes, to get closer, but Hawkeye’s grip on him was too tight; he was pulled close, held suffocatingly near in an awkward, half-kneeling position as he tasted the other, first the skin then the lips again. There was the gin and olives and Hawkeye, and when he pulled away the other made a low whimper that sent heat directly to his groin. He tried to press closer to find contact, but found instead their legs in the way. He pulled back with a growl.

Hawkeye’s eyes were closed, his frame tense, and his breath shallow. He started when BJ pulled further away, shaking off his grasp.

“It’s okay,” the other panted. “I just,” another breath, “I can’t reach you. Need you.”

Hawkeye felt hands on his upper arms, turning him around, his extended too far for him to actually kneel. He leant on the sofa arm, knees sinking into its softness as he felt BJ’s warm weight settled across his back. The blond pressed close, laying himself full length against the other, one arm caught around Hawkeye’s chest, the other trapped between body and sofa to the right, awkwardly supporting a portion of his weight.

He shifted himself upward, and Hawkeye’s breath hitched as he felt BJ’s hardon pressing through the fabric of the man’s pants, nudging his bottom and eliciting a low moan as the contact was achieved. BJ began to rock against him, shaky motions turning into more powerful thrusts against his clothed backside. It was all so familiar, an act mimicked from practice sessions on a narrow cot that wouldn’t allow intricate acts of intimacy.

Hawkeye was aware of his own erection, trapped against the sofa, but finding minimal contact from the overstuffed cushion. Ever a man for instant gratification, he wanted to reach down a hand, but his folded arms were caught over the couch arm and BJ’s press too tight and too desperate to allow a moment of readjustment. Still, it felt good to have the man against him, to hear his broken breathing against ear, legs over and between his own, and especially to know that BJ wanted him so badly.

“Hawk,” he swallowed air, talking without stopping the pounding motion of his lower half, “the drinks….I can’t…”

“S’okay,” he managed. He wanted to say something more encouraging, but his mind was too occupied by excitement and its physical incarnations. He settled for reaching back, grazing BJ’s sweating face with his hand as the other grunted, gave a last thrust, and buried his head in the heated crease of Hawkeye’s neck while he convulsed against him.

They lay there a moment before BJ recovered his will to move and sat back on his heels, one leg still between Hawkeye’s two. Hawkeye remained where he was, wondering what would happen, now and later, the throbbing organ between his legs nearly consumed by worry over the morning after. Nearly.

“Sorry,” BJ said. The word cut through Hawkeye, twisting his stomach. BJ saw him tense, rethought his phrase, and smiled. Instead of instantly making the correction, a rather happy and decided BJ thought to, as Hawkeye might have done, make a little game of it. He grabbed the doctor by his waist, dragging him up onto his own knees, just in front of and almost on top of BJ on the couch. Hawkeye refused to turn to even half look at him, and BJ had to lean close to look around the other’s shoulder, reaching for Hawkeye’s chin, and finally managing to see his face. He was instantly regretful.

“God, Hawk, no. I didn’t,” he wrapped his arms around him, pulling him close, Hawkeye’s back to his front. “I just meant I was sorry that I, uh,” he laughed a little, “couldn‘t restrain myself.”

“Oh,” it sounded almost nonchalant, but Hawkeye, torn by hurt, relief, and need, couldn’t find it in him to make conversation.

“Oh? That’s all I get?” BJ laughed again, happy. “Well,” he decided out loud, “I think I owe you something.”

His arms unwrapped from Hawkeye, hands running down the length of the other’s arms then up his thighs. He rubbed one brazenly across Hawkeye’s bulging crotch while the other worked at the button. Zipper undone, BJ fished into the heated pocked of the boxers with his right hand to capture the pulsing organ there, wrapping his fingers around its length as he used his left hand to push the fabric down just enough to free Hawkeye’s penis.

Hawkeye moaned as BJ stroked his length with fluid motions, applying damp kisses to the back of his neck. He couldn’t seem to catch his breath as skilled hands tugged him from base to tip, thumb slipping occasional across the sensitive top of his erection, pausing to catch the vicious liquid gather there, smearing it slightly down the side.

Hawkeye felt the pressure consuming his body, pulling on each muscle, winding him tighter. He was on the edge, but even though his body willed it, his overburdened mind refused to let it happen. His hands splayed against the couch, tense and shaking.

“Please,” he asked, “Beej.” He exhaled the name, back arching slightly, making him press against the other. BJ pressed back against him, holding his weight, working faster and with more pressure.

“Come on, Hawkeye,” BJ encouraged. “I got you.”

Then Hawkeye stiffened, gasping in wordless pleasure as light flooded his senses and wet warmth spurted out from him to cover BJ’s hand. BJ gently milked the organ, patiently waiting for Hawkeye to return to the world of functioning humans. He did so with a sigh, body sagging, lax against his friend’s.

“Beej?”

“Yeah?” He shifted to retrieve a handkerchief from his pocket, and finding his more interesting parts still uncomfortably encapsulated in damp pants and in need of a hot shower, applied it to his hand instead, withdrawing it from Hawkeye to clean it.

“I don’t know if I want to know. . .” He paused to accept the proffered piece of cloth, wiping at himself haphazardly and doing up his pants. “But, in the morning,” he turned to look at the other, and, taking refuge in an old act, queried with a smile, “You wanna pay me now and send me on my way, sailor?”

“Not on your life.” BJ kissed leaned forward to kiss him. And while Hawkeye felt the comfort radiating from the touch, a small part of his brain insisted with disconcerting aptness that BJ was still drunk.


~tbc~

AN: According to Microsoft Word, I made up two new words this chapter. Wanna guess which ones? Look for more updates soon!