One of the things Hawkeye missed most, other than the standards, was food. True food, a real meal, none of that pig slop they dared to try and pass as nourishment every morning noon and night. Food that wouldn't rip away more stomach lining than the lighter fluid her called a martini. A meal the required more preparation than 'just add water' or picking maggots off of it. Something with satisfaction behind it.
It was that longing that led Hawkeye to have more than just a passing interest in the weekly packages BJ received from home. Always considerate, the blonde man would offer a generous share of half to Hawkeye, and always he would be refused. Claims of "I couldn't, it's yours" and "No, really, I wouldn't want to spoil dinner" were always expressed, and, after a taste from the rightful owner, the packages were tucked away neatly and out of sight.
Then, when BJ was asleep, in Post Op, showering, or involved in any other activity that rendered him oblivious, Hawkeye would carefully remove the package from it's place and, without a moment's thought, take half. Always he'd leave behind a small token in exchange. A few dimes here, a pair of freshly darned argyle socks there, and in one case, half a bottle of the best scotch this side of the war.
Both men were aware of these transactions, though neither vocally expressed it.
Until one day, when Radar pushed the familiar brown wrapping into BJ's hands, and Hawkeye found himself with his own package, both baring the same name, the other man just smiled as Hawkeye did the only thing he could.
"Thank you."
That night, a two-day pass to Tokyo, a pass Hawkeye had rejoiced in owning, found it's way onto BJ's pillow.