Feverish
He thinks, I hope I'm not falling in love, but it's already too late.
Usually by the time you're thinking something like I hope I'm not falling in love, it has pretty much already happened.
No, he thinks frantically, not wanting to believe.
He can't really lift his head, it feels like it weighs a ton, and his eyes feel scratchy and he's almost too weak to function, but he doesn't have to move a muscle to see the object of his affection. He looks across the aisle, over at Hawkeye, who's tending to a patient and making jokes, and even as his eyes wander appreciatively over the tall, lanky form, his mind repeats the denial. No.
I have a fever, maybe this is just delirium. Yeah, that's it, just the ravings of a fevered mind.
He closes his eyes and tries to swallow, but everything he does hurts. Even trying to deny his feelings hurts—though not necessarily physically. As pain sears through his throat with his attempt to swallow, he lets out a groan.
Hawkeye turns to him then, clearly having heard. "Beej?" he ambles over, stares down. "You doing all right? I mean, considering?"
Flu. Not just the flu, but the nastiest bug he's ever had, and he couldn't possibly feel worse. Except for the fact that he's been watching Hawkeye (with nothing much else to do, laid up here in post-op as he is) and coming to an unsettling realization. That thing about falling in love. That realization.
"Hot," he manages to say, and it takes great effort. Hawkeye reaches for his forehead and B.J. watches as his expression shifts. He's very concerned, it's clear.
"Baker?" Hawkeye says, a little too loudly. "Ice packs over here for our favorite flu patient?" He's trying to keep things light but B.J. can see there's a slight panic behind the calm exterior.
Hawkeye smiles down at him, and B.J. may very well be sick, feverish, and miserable, but he isn't dead. The smile nearly melts him into the mattress. "Don't worry, Beej," Hawkeye is saying in a soothing voice. "We'll get that fever down. And you're about due for your meds, so that'll help too."
Then Baker's there with the ice packs, and they're both placing them around him, the blessed coolness making him instantly happy. Well, happier than he'd been, at any rate. As much as he'd like to keep on staring up into Hawkeye's blue eyes, he shuts his own, reveling in the cool of the ice and the relative comfort it brings.
"Good idea, Beej," he hears Hawkeye say. "Go to sleep. Best thing you can do."
Anything you say, beautiful, he thinks, and there's a ghost of a smile on his face as he drifts off.
Sloooowly, he swims back toward consciousness. He's in no hurry. He has no idea how long he's slept, how much time has passed since the ice packs, but he's feeling a little better. Not quite as hot, not quite as muddled.
He blinks a few times and clears his throat. He can actually lift his head now (miracle of miracles!), and he looks around the post-op, trying to see who's on duty.
Please not Frank, he thinks, please not Frank.
His eyes come to rest on Hawkeye, writing in a patient's chart down the aisle, and serenity washes over him. He's in Hawkeye's care. What time it is, what day it is—none of that matters. He's feeling the slightest bit better, and he has Hawkeye by his side.
Because they've been practically reading each other's minds since the day they met, Hawkeye looks over at him then, and smiles. "Hey!" He strides over to B.J.'s bed, the white coat flowing behind him, his dark hair tousled. "You slept for a really long time."
"How long?"
"Fifteen hours, about? Your temperature came down, sleep was the best thing for you, so we just let you sleep. How you feeling?"
"Think I'm a little better. My head doesn't feel like it's gonna fall off anymore. I'm not hot anymore."
"We should get food into you as soon as possible. Yes, even mess tent food will be good for you at this point." Hawkeye sits next to him on the bed, and his heart goes thump, and the thought comes back to him then, suddenly: that's right… in the middle of everything, I was thinking I was falling in love…
Hawkeye places his palm on the side of B.J.'s face, gently.
I was right.
"You had me worried. Your temperature got up to 104 at one point. Thank God we were able to get it down." Hawkeye moves the hand from his face to his arm, strokes it once, twice. "You're getting some color back. I think the worst is over, Beej."
B.J. nods. "I think so too. Thanks, doc." He tries a smile. He's still ridiculously weak, but the cobwebs are gone from his brain, and that's usually the first sign of improvement. And he finds he does actually have something of an appetite.
"Kellye?" Hawkeye says. "Can we get a take-out order from Mess Tent Central, please? Some soup, maybe?"
Nurse Kellye calls back with a "Sure," and Hawkeye moves to stand up, but B.J. reaches out to stop him.
"Wait, Hawk." He doesn't know what he wants to say, but he feels like he needs to say something. Not the confession about being in love; he's not ready for that conversation yet, if he ever will be. He'll need his strength for that, he'll need conviction and courage and probably a few belts of gin, too, to have that talk. But he wants to say something to Hawkeye now, about how safe he felt, how well taken care of. "I just wanted to… thank you. For taking care of me like you did."
"Aw, 'tweren't nothing," Hawkeye replies with a dismissive wave.
"I'm not saying it right, I don't think. I mean that you did everything right, you made me feel so calm and like I couldn't possibly be in better hands. Which I couldn't have been. You're an amazing doctor—skilled, compassionate."
"I took Bedside Manner 101 in med school," Hawkeye jokes, but B.J. doesn't let him brush this off.
"I mean it. You're gifted. I don't know if I've ever met anyone who feels as intensely as you do. I've been your patient now. I understand that."
There's a shimmer in Hawk's eyes, and finally he accepts the compliment, saying softly, "Thanks, Beej."
B.J. nods, and the eye contact between them lingers. There's always something there, something almost magical between them, a connection, a bond. He's never felt it with anyone else in his life, not like this. Not even with his wife.
"It's good to have a coherent conversation with you, and to see your eyes looking alert again," Hawkeye is saying. "I'm so glad you're feeling better."
"Me too."
"Couple more days, you should be back in the Swamp, losing badly at chess."
B.J. laughs. "Checkmating you triumphantly, I think you meant to say."
Hawkeye shares in the laughter and they're still chuckling when Nurse Kellye comes back into post-op with the requested soup.
As Hawkeye spoon-feeds B.J., making bad jokes about first the food he's been missing the last few days, and then the movies he's been missing, B.J. watches his eyes and his easy smile, and he thinks: Of course I fell in love. The only question is, what took me so long?