A/N: So this is my first attempt at a combining shows type of AU, and I'm v new to writing for M*A*S*H, so my bad if anything's terribly OOC or weird or anything... Basically just bear with me. I hope y'all enjoy this!
1989
Behind the house, Hawkeye waited for his dad to open the trunk of his ugly beige car. "I'm sorry, Dad," he said, reaching for the first bag of groceries within. He'd been given yet another How Many Hats In The Room quiz while shopping, and being off by a grand total of two was apparently enough to convince his old man he needed even more pop quizzes. "But since when did bandanas count as hats? I was close."
"Close doesn't cut it anymore, Hawkeye," Dad said, leaning very unhelpfully on the car. He wore his officer uniform, his Potter-Pierce name badge glinting in the midday sunlight, ready to go on patrol after this. "You're going soft on me."
Hawkeye set the first bag down by the back steps and leaned in for another. "You know I'm 11, right?"
"It's not some bar trick, Hawkeye," Dad insisted. "This is about survival – knowing how many hats are in the room may very well save your life one day. Now pay attention."
Hawkeye's shoulders slumped. Great. Another lesson.
"Today, we're learning about worst-case scenarios," Dad went on.
-SBPD-
Present Day (Meaning 2009)
B.J. stood in the storage yard, still wearing his pajama shirt, but he'd thrown on day pants and a trench coat, wondering why he was here. The only connection he was getting was the ice cream truck to his right – unfortunately empty of ice cream, he had already checked. Nothing else here seemed to have anything to do with their case – a bunch of rusty everyday cars, an armored truck, some heavy machinery... His tiny, carefully maintained, bright blue hatchback Echo stuck out like a sore thumb amidst it all.
He heard footsteps, and looked up to see Margaret and Winchester walking across the gravel to join him. Winchester's brand new, deep blue Crown Victoria Police Interceptor that he'd been bragging about for days was now parked next to B.J.'s car.
"B.J.!" Margaret greeted. The two detectives, B.J. noticed, had been smart enough to change completely out of their pajamas, Margaret in a black suit and Winchester in grey. Odd. Normally it was the other way around - Margaret adored her grey pantsuits. "We got down here as soon as we could, are you all right?"
"Yeah," B.J. answered.
Winchester, of course, spoke up in utter irritation before they could finish exchanging pleasantries. Or start doing that, really. "You two had better have a very good reason for dragging me out of my bed and down here to Nowheresville at 4:30 in the morning. Where the hell is Pierce?"
B.J. shrugged. He wanted to be annoyed at his lifelong best friend, but concern was beginning to push out any irritation he'd felt at being awoken so early. "Your guess is as good as mine."
"If I wanted to make guesses, I would go on a game show," Winchester groused. "What the hell is going on?"
"Look, all I know is he left me this message about an hour ago..."
He held up his phone, clicking play on Hawk's voicemail. "Beej, I figured it out! It's sweet – this whole thing was just a rehearsal. I'm leaving my place, meet me down at the storage yard now. Come in your fireman PJs if you have to, just be there."
"What does that mean, 'rehearsal'?" Margaret asked.
"I have no idea," B.J. said, worry creeping into his voice. The detectives were here – Hawk could show off his "psychic" prowess and solve the case in his usual dramatic fashion. So where was he?
-SBPD-
Hawkeye grimaced as the car ran over a series of bumps, jostling him against the walls of the trunk. Agony stabbed through his left shoulder, but he ignored it, focusing instead on his hands, duct taped behind his back. This was great, just great, this was just his luck.
It wasn't often Hawkeye regretted lying about being a psychic. It was certainly better than being stuck in jail because the cops thought his keen observations were actually insider info. And while it could occasionally be difficult, coming up with and keeping track of a convincing enough web of lies to keep the cops fooled, he wouldn't give up solving cases for the world at this point. Piecing together the clues, the rush of announcing he'd solved the case, working with B.J. and Margaret, annoying the absolute crap out of Winchester… It was the only thing he had enjoyed doing long enough to make a career of it.
But sometimes, that career landed him, quite literally, in dark, painful situations.
The memory was hazy, far hazier than his eidetic memory was used to, but still it haunted him as he worked the tape.
"Hey, what are you doing here?" the bad guy demanded, gun pointed straight at Hawkeye. That damn gun, and there was no Winchester, no Margaret, not even B.J. to try distracting him. How stupid he'd truly been this time.
Getting to the clues before Winchester and solving the case in front of him was probably the most fun part of solving cases. Getting the detective all riled up never got old, even if he had given up on stopping the Winny nickname years ago. But right now, Hawkeye really, really wished he had gotten there first.
I need to… need to call someone.
If he could just reach his phone…
-SBPD-
1989
"All right, here we go," Dad said after all of the groceries were settled on the back steps. He pointed at the car's open trunk. "How do you escape when you're locked in the trunk of a car?"
"'When'?" Hawkeye echoed skeptically. "Don't you mean if? As in, like, maybe never?"
"Not today, son," Dad said. Without warning, he scooped Hawkeye off the ground, dropping him into the trunk. "Your survival training starts right now."
As the trunk slammed shut, Hawkeye heard a woman gasp. "What are you doing?" Hawkeye demanded. "Dad?"
But Dad was busy saying, "Don't worry, Ms. Nussbaum, everything's fine! Got the keys right here, just teaching Hawkeye a little survival technique. Thank you."
Well, you were helpful, Ms. Nussbuam.
"All right, Hawkeye, listen up," Dad continued, patting the trunk. "Now, here's what you wanna do: You want to feel for the brake light. You feel it?" he checked, tapping it from outside. "It's right over here."
Hawkeye wiggled towards the tapping, running his hands along the wall until the texture changed abruptly. "Yes," he called.
"Okay, now what you would do, is you'd kick it out with your feet. You'd want to create a hole so you could look out and see where you are."
It wasn't an explicit order to kick it out right now. But he had been taught to anticipate his dad's orders, and, well, he'd be lying if he said he'd never wanted to kick his dad's hideous car.
So Hawkeye kicked out the brake light.
Daylight flooded into the trunk, accompanied by his dad's yelling. "I didn't say to actually do it, I said you would do it!"
"Whoops," Hawkeye said half-heartedly, smirking broadly.
-SBPD-
Back To The Present
After feeling around with his foot, Hawkeye kicked out the brake light. Huh. Who know that would ever actually be useful. Grunting, he wriggled around to peer out. Still night, all right, that was good, he hadn't been out too long. He focused on the markers flashing by – a construction cone, a yellow reflector, a sign with a peace sign graffitied onto it – until a particularly large bump smacked him into the top of the trunk.
"Ow!" he grunted.
But the hit had shaken his phone loose. He tugged it fully free of his back pocket, careful not to drop it as he turned it around. Praying he was hitting the right buttons, he opened the phone app up and scrolled through his contacts, counting the scrolls until… Yes, that one should be B.J.
He clicked, and thankfully it started ringing. And ringing. And ringing.
Pick up, damn it.
He tossed it over his shoulder, and it thankfully landed face-up. He stared at it, waiting.
"Hawkeye Pierce, what do you want?"
Hawkeye furrowed his brows at the distinctly feminine voice – not B.J. Crap. "Uh, Bethany! Bethany Bigelow. Wh-" Why is your number still in my phone? We went on one awful date. "Hey! Hello."
"That's all you have to say for yourself? 'Uh, hello'?" Bethany demanded. "Why did you never call me back?" Her tone turned insecure. "Was it because I had two slices of cheesecake at the Cheesecake Factory? Cause if that's it, I've lost a lot of weight since then, I really have."
"What?" Hawkeye exclaimed. "No. No, and I feel so bad about that, and I want to address it, I do-" I really don't. "-but maybe you could do me a little favor here. See, I'm in some trouble, and I need-"
"A favor?" Crap, she was hostile again. "How dare you ask me for a favor after what you did to me? I'm sorry, but nobody, nobody treats Bethany Bigelow that way, F.Y.I."
Famous hang-up words if Hawkeye had ever heard them. And he had. Quite a bit. "Wait, don't-"
Click.
Too late.
"It wasn't even the cheesecake," Hawkeye muttered bitterly to the uncaring car trunk. "It was the talking about yourself in the third person."
Well, typing with his nose in a shaking car wasn't going to work. With one final, massive effort that sent searing pain ricocheting through his bleeding shoulder, he tore free of the duct tape with a gasp. They tingled painfully as circulation returned, but he wasted no time, grabbing his phone and all but stabbing B.J.'s name.
"Come on, come on, come on," he whispered, glancing at the low signal warning.
The phone beeped, announcing that the call had failed.
Panic shot through him. He had one phone call, and he'd wasted it on a bitter ex.
He steadied himself with a breath. Roll with it.
He opened up his texts, typing as quickly as he could.
-SBPD-
B.J.'s phone went off, and he glanced back at it to see a new text. "Wait, this just came in from Hawkeye."
"Read it," Margaret urged.
B.J. just furrowed his brows at it. "I have no idea what this means. 'Trunk yelrfx ocone pol peac sig'."
"What is that?"
"It's gibberish," Winchester said distractedly, looking at something on the ground. He walked towards it, moving past B.J. Under any other circumstances, B.J. might've complained about his uncaring gruffness, but right now, the steady voice might be the one anchor amidst the sea of worry B.J. suddenly found himself floating in.
"Wait, there's more," B.J. said, getting a new text. "'Binshot not lol'."
"What is he talking about?" Margaret asked, leaning over to look at the text.
B.J. shook his head, repeating the text. "Binshot. Binshot, binshot, binshot…"
Margaret looked past him. "What are you playing with over there?" she called to Winchester.
B.J. glanced back, seeing the head detective crouched down, dipping his finger into a splotch of something on the ground. He looked up slowly, all irritation suddenly gone from his voice. His shoulders were stiff, his eyes meeting Margaret's, his tone grim. "It's blood."
Blood.
"Binshot," B.J. repeated, changing the pronunciation slightly. And, in conjunction with the blood and Hawkeye's absence, it finally hit him.
Been shot.
"Oh my god. Hawk's been shot!"