AN: Okay, so I wrote this in one day, posted it, and then realized that the first draft was, well, little more than a self-indulgent drabble of a story with a noticeable tense shift, so, I took it down, revised it, and am now (hopefully) posting a better version!

I know its "choppy," just trying a little something style-wise.

mild slash, BJ/Hawkeye

House Call

He wasn't well. Actually, he wasn't anything that even remotely resembled well, but I rolled him out of bed anyway. Shoving his shoulder, I called his name, and practically drug him to the edge of his cot, pretending that I didn't see the tell-tale stiffness or tremble that suggested more than the common cold he maintained was his only affliction.

Well done, Doctor.

First do no harm.

Unless there's a war on.

I didn't have a choice. It wasn't my decision for those shells to be dropped or for those boys to be packed shoulder to shoulder in the bus, and it wasn't me who told the Colonel to take a week R and R while the war was supposedly on hiatus. And it sure as hell wasn't my idea to be short a doctor when it all came down.

So I had to wake him, watch him struggle into his boots, and drag him off to scrub in. I left him there for a few minutes while I began triage; I couldn't leave it to Frank, or I'd be mending a hangnail while some poor kid bled to death in the compound.

I already had blood on my hands. It transferred from bandages to my fingertips to the chart I was holding, mixed with dust and sweat and the inescapable grime that gathered in every crevice. Surgery was bloody by nature, but it wasn't supposed to be dirty.

Margaret was helping, moving swiftly from one litter to the other. She lifted bandages and offered words of encouragement, and together we decided who could wait. Too many of them couldn't wait very long. There was a belly wound that I needed to start on right away, so I left her to the rest.

I got my hands clean.

I think.

They looked clean, in comparison at least.

Hawkeye was already in when I went to scrub. His red robe dangled, wrinkled and limp, from one of the hooks on the wall.

I backed through the doors, the silence of Pre-Op consumed by the murmur that always floated around in the operating room.

"Gloves."

I got them, latex snapping around my covered wrists. I took a table and didn't look up for an hour. When they took the soldier away, stitched up and bandaged and bleeding a whole lot less than he was when he came in, I scanned the room. Frank was next to me, sweating profusely, apparently unrelieved that there were no jokes being batted across the room; Janice handed him a clamp, and he reached a bloodied hand to grasp it and put it in place. He swallowed hard and asked for a scalpel.

I suppose the tools are the same everywhere, simple silver edges, mostly sterile. But they feel different here, heavier.

Hawkeye was at the table behind Frank, bent over his own patient, a chest case. I couldn't see much behind the mask, but his eyes were fever bright. Of course, he probably had a fever. His attention was focused on the patient, but Margaret flashed an accusatory glance in my direction before handing over the retractor he demanded.

What was she blaming me for? I wasn't in charge. Frank was, technically. He just dropped a pair of scissors. Brilliant.

How did Frank ever make it through med school? He saved lives, but he wasn't a good doctor.

Did a war have good doctors?

Yes. But I wasn't sure that I was one of them.

Most of the time I wanted to be, but I would rather have been at home.

The patients kept coming. They were bloody and beaten, barely stripped of their dirty clothes. Of course, I was a doctor wearing combat boots. I don't know what I expected, maybe just a little sanity, maybe enough consideration to let a man rest when he's ill.

Eventually--I couldn't give a time--I noticed the wounds were getting less critical and the patients were coming to me conscious, a good sign.

I could save them.

Time moved again, and I was treating a leg wound, a lot of bleeding, but not severe enough that there was a threat of amputation. I was closing. That's the only reason I saw it, his dash from OR. It was more of a hurried walk after a motion to Margaret to close and a one-word reassurance that he'd be back.

And then Margaret's stare again.

Damn. I swore silently, aloud only: "Close this."

"Yes, Doctor."

Doctor.

Time to play doctor.

I realized my mind was as tired as my body, but I tried to hurry both as I went to find him. And bring him back? Yeah, I had to bring him back.

I stripped off my gown and gloves and went out. Hawkeye hadn't made it far. Still in full surgical garb, he was hunched over the barrel that served as a trash can, mask hanging limply around his neck as he finished throwing up what little he had eaten that day. I stepped toward him, but he motioned me back with one hand. So I waited, albeit impatiently, standing two feet away as he hacked up his guts.

"Stomach's supposed to stay in," I offered. He laughed sarcastically, a short sound that ended up in coughing and retching. But it passed. He stumbled to lean heavily against the building, dragging up the hem of his white smock, checking it for blood, and then wiping his mouth with it. He leaned his head back, breathing heavily. I put the back of my hand to his forehead: too hot.

"Go back to the Swamp."

Doctor's orders.

He drug his head back up and looked at me, "Can't."

He was right. There were still too many, and there had been a heads-up call to expect more. I couldn't keep him out of that room anymore than I could keep myself out of it.

"Come on."

Back in, to the sinks. I clasp his hand briefly before we scrub. It's dry and too warm, but it's steady. He thinks I was just checking. No one's here to see, so I lift his fingers briefly to my lips.

"For luck?"

"For stamina."

Hawkeye made it to the end of the second rush, finished just a few minutes before me. He offered his free hands to our efforts, but upon being declined failed to insist or even to make some smart remark before he left the room. Margaret followed him, the wooden doors swinging closed behind them.

"Needle. Hold that. Almost…"

They carried the last two away, and Frank and I exited together, too tired to fight with each other. He dropped down to the bench to pull off his boots. Again I began to strip off my scrubs, back down to my second-skin army greens. Didn't I used to wear regular clothes under my doctor clothes?

"Captain?"

"Margaret."

"Are you going back to the Swamp?"

"Well, I thought about stopping in at the gala, but I suppose…"

She rolled her eyes at me and handed me a medicine bottle, "Take this. And," she took my elbow and tugged me into the next room. Pointing to a nearby gurney, she almost whispered, "better take that last patient."

Hawkeye. He was curled up, hands still gloved and bloody tucked against his chest and white surgical cap only half-off.

"Thanks."

"Of course, Doctor." She turned on her heel and left.

She was angry. Her doctor was a sarcastic remark, not a title.

Tucking the bottles into my pocket, I approached the gurney. I pulled the cap away, sparing a stroke for the dark hair, already laced with silver. Next the gloves; a low groan escaped him as I manipulated his arms to remove the smock, and I didn't bother with the shirt or pants.

I thought he would wake up after that, but he slept on, and I didn't have the heart to rouse him again. Tugging him into a sitting position, I scooped him into my arms and started off towards the Swamp. Frank was just walking out too, and he had the rare courtesy to open the door.

"Headed home, Frank?" My voice held the strain of the weight I was holding.

He sniffed, "No, I'm . . . busy. Besides, I'm in command, so I get to stay in the Colonel's tent."

"Congratulations."

"Yeah, you wish!"

I hurried past him, afraid I was going to drop Hawkeye and debating how I would navigate the next door. There were only a few meters left when he began to move, blinking his eyes against the light and attempting to stretch awkwardly in my grasp.

"Beej?"

"Yeah?" I grunted and hefted his weight a little closer to my body.

"Put me down." The words were slightly slurred, and he looked as if he would rather not be released, but I complied, having to catch him again as soon as he left my arms. Carefully keeping him up right with an arm around his waist, I navigated Hawkeye into the late afternoon dimness of the Swamp.

Not wasting any time, he crawled, quite literately, into his cot and settled on his stomach. Bending over, I yanked off his boots and, pulling it out from under his legs, tucked the rough blanket over him before dropping into the chair near his cot. Taking the bottle from my pocket, I checked the label: aspirin.

Take two and call me in the morning.

Thank you, Doctor.

"Hawk," I touch his shoulder. There was some mumble of an answer that probably translated into a vague threat. "Sit up."

He lifted his head just enough to pronounce it clearly, "No."

Now he refused me.

"Come on." I moved to fill a tin cup with stale water and sat on his cot, careful not to spill us both off of it. "Turn over."

He did, looking at me with ragged exhaustion.

"Tired, Beej."

"I know. Just for a second, sit up."

He sat and shifted back against the wall, half awake.

"Here, take these." I pushed two round, white pills into his hand.

"What?"

"Aspirin. You're sick."

"How'd you guess?"

"I moonlight as a doctor; I'm actually a very talented wino."

He popped the pills into his mouth, and I offered him the water. His throat rippled as he swallowed . I took the cup from his uncertain hand as he tried to aim for the table.

I watched as he burrowed back under the blanket then pulled it up over his shoulders. Laying on his side, he looked at me, hesitating.

"What?"

Was he going to accuse me?

"Cold."

"You can have my blanket." But he caught my sleeve before I could move to get it, and I instantly knew where I would be spending the night. It would be easier to watch him from there anyway. Lifting the edge of the cover, I slid in beside him, the cot squeaking precariously. My hips rested uncomfortably against the edge, and, being familiar with the ins and outs of cot-spooning, I was sure his knees were similarly positioned, but I could feel his breathing warmth as he scooted against me and tried to get comfortable.

It was just us.

The dirt was relegated to inconspicuous corners. The blood was reduced to unobtrusive stains. The instruments were put away, and the combat boots were off.

In that cot, I wasn't anything but 'Beej.'

And I could take care of him, at least for a little while.

"Okay?"

"Yes…doctor."

-fin-

Thanks for reading! If I get a good response, I'll try to get a few more of these written up between working on chapters of my longer fic and attempting to pass my summer French course.