Dear Everyone

Christmas 1955

Dear 4077th friends:

I hope this letter finds you all well and looking forward to the Christmas season. I've decided a holiday newsletter is in order, which probably comes as no surprise. After all, you guys know me—the party-organizer, the one who can't quite accept the fact that we're no longer living together as a family. I miss you all and I hope we can stay in close contact with one another no matter how many years pass since the dark days of the war that brought us together.

First things first: although the vast majority of you already know this, there may be a few who haven't heard. Peg and I got divorced in early 1954, and Hawkeye and I are a couple now. He moved out here to Mill Valley in the spring of that year. At first he was working at a local clinic as a GP, but I was able to pull some strings and get him into the hospital where I've been working since returning home from Korea, San Francisco General. Peg has remained in the Bay area, and Hawkeye and I get Erin on most weekends. He's really good with her—he's a natural father—and she simply adores him.

Those of you who remember the Swamp (and who wouldn't?) would probably be surprised to hear that our little suburban house is neat and cozy and very kid-friendly. We have a small patch of a backyard where Erin has a sandbox to play in. Right now, Hawkeye is decorating a cute, just-a-bit-taller-than-him Christmas tree in the corner of the living room, and three Christmas stockings are already hung over the fireplace. We have a comfortable daily routine: we both work the first shift at the hospital so we commute together. Most evenings I do the cooking. He washes, I dry. He mows the lawn but I handle the handyman-type stuff. We go to the movies a lot, even if we do miss having our favorite Lebanese cross-dresser running the projector. If I'm making it sound like we're living in fairy-tale domestic bliss, well… good. Because we are.

Speaking of you, Klinger: we were delighted to hear that you and Soon-Lee found her parents, alive and well in the farmlands of Korea, even if it did take much longer than you imagined it would. We're even more thrilled to know that you're now back home in Toledo, where you belong! Someday we'll come visit. We're dying to eat at Packo's.

Father Mulcahy, it's a shame that the first operation didn't entirely resolve your hearing loss, but we're optimistic that the next one will get you closer, if not 100%. Please keep us posted. I'll be praying for you, while Hawkeye simply sends his good thoughts, since he's still the agnostic you knew and loved back at the mighty 4077th.

The rest of you: please let us hear from you. Sometimes it doesn't seem possible that only a couple years have passed since we all said goodbye, but other times it seems like that experience was decades ago. You know, we really ought to think about planning a reunion—

"Hawk, what the hell are you doing?" B.J. said in exasperation, his pen suddenly stilled by his partner's obnoxious hovering at his elbow.

"Look up," Hawkeye said, a tease in his voice.

B.J. did, and saw that Hawkeye was holding something above his head. "What is that?"

Hawkeye made a tsk sound as though he couldn't believe how dense his boyfriend was. "Mistletoe, you dummy!" And then he swooped in for a breathtaking kiss on the mouth that lasted… and lasted… and lasted. And included a lot of tongue.

Eventually they came up for air. But only because they had to.

"Mmmm, that's nice," B.J. purred. "But don't get started. I'm in the middle of writing this newsletter—"

"Pish tosh! Finish it up tomorrow. I'm done decorating the tree and you have mistletoe above your head. All the signs are there, Beej. Bedtime! Come on." Hawk took hold of B.J.'s hand and tugged.

Not only was there no point in arguing, B.J. didn't really want to. He smiled sweetly, put his pen down, and let himself be pulled out of his chair and in the direction of the bedroom.

The inaugural edition of the 4077th holiday newsletter was just going to have to wait.