Battle Scars

The doctor paused and looked up from his notes. "Who was your psychiatrist back there?"

"Freedman. Sidney Freedman. Finest kind."

"Did you ever talk to him about this?"

"No, I never did."

"Why do you think that is?"

Hawkeye shrugged. "I didn't think there was much point to it. Besides, he was more of a friend than my psychiatrist, as you put it. He came to visit us now and then, play poker. He treated me a few times when my cheese slipped off my cracker, but it wasn't… We didn't have ongoing sessions or anything. It wasn't like… like this."

"How about your father? Have you talked to him about it?"

"Nah. Dad and I are close… very close, but I couldn't tell him about this." Hawkeye shifted a little, looked daggers at the doctor. "That's why I have you, right?"

"I was just wondering if you'd shared these feelings with anyone else."

"No, doc. You're my one and only confidant. Mind if I continue?"

The doctor made the universal gesture of go on. "Absolutely, Hawkeye. By all means."

Hawkeye leaned back in his chair, eyes focusing on the ceiling. It was easier to talk about this when he didn't have to look at the doc. "The first thing I notice in a person?" he said wistfully, his mind showing him pictures from long ago. "Not the eyes or the ass. The first thing I notice is the smile. And B.J. Hunnicutt had the most amazing smile I'd ever seen. It nearly stopped my heart."

Fresh-faced, laundered and pressed, looking almost too young to be an honest-to-God doctor, B.J. Hunnicutt is looking at him as they sit in the bar at Kimpo, and the young captain smiles. And Hawkeye's blinded by it, by the beauty of it, and suddenly he thinks: why is it the best-looking ones are always married?

He's just met the guy and he's frightened by the intensity of his reaction. With the young man's first laugh, so genuine and sexy, Hawkeye feels a zing! surge through his body. He's just met the guy, but his heart is already racing and he feels nervous for no good reason. And he's thinking: love at first sight? Does that even happen outside of fiction? It'd never happened to him before.

He's afraid that's exactly what's happening to him now.

"We were simpatico. He understood me, and it didn't take long, either. Our brains just melded together, like we were long-lost brothers or something. Except my feelings for him were not brotherly." He reached for his glass of water and took a drink. He wasn't used to talking quite this much, but it felt good to unburden himself.

"From the beginning?"

"Oh yes. From the beginning, I had it bad. We were together all the time, doc. Sometimes my arm would brush against his, or our hips would touch briefly as we walked together, and that contact would always send sparks up my spine, shivers through my body. My attraction was every bit as physical as it was emotional." He laughed impishly. "Showers. Oh, doc, the showers. My eyes would roam his naked body, admiring what he had, trying—needing—to be discreet. But I gotta tell ya, the showers were the highlight of every day."

Silence stretched out for a moment or two, until the doctor prompted. "Please go on."

Hawkeye shook his head, ridding himself of sensual shower memories, as wonderful as they might be. "At night, I would lie in my cot, unable to sleep, and I'd curl up on my side so I could look at him. He was only a few feet away. His face would be so peaceful, so innocent as he slept. And my mind would go into overdrive, daydreaming about him and me, about us. Sometimes the fantasies were sexual, but a lot of times they weren't. It would be more along the lines of… what would happen after the war. Like the two of us setting up house together. We'd get a place in Crabapple Cove, and paint the rooms, and fix up one for Erin for when she came to visit. And I always pictured him doing the cooking, because I think he'd be better at it than me. And maybe we'd go to the SPCA to adopt a couple of cats. I had this whole scenario in my head of how our life would be, after the war. All the various ways we could live happily ever after."

"But you knew he was married—"

"I didn't say it was rational, doc. Or realistic. It was just the way my mind worked."

"Did you ever consider telling him about your feelings?"

"Oh," Hawkeye smiled sadly, "I thought about that a lot. When to tell him, how to tell him, what words might be the magic ones that would convince him to sail off into the sunset with me."

"But you never actually did tell him…"

"Is this my story or yours, doc?" Hawkeye snapped impatiently.

"I'm sorry, go right ahead."

But for a minute or two, Hawkeye said nothing. He closed his eyes and thought back, and eventually he said, very softly, "There was one kiss, in all the time we lived together over there. Just the one. And I very nearly told him then."

Hawkeye's just the tiniest bit buzzed. They're walking back from Rosie's, where he had watched how much he drank, because he was trying lately not to go overboard. So he has a nice, pleasant buzz, but he's not drunk, and neither is B.J.

They're laughing and talking over each other, and B.J. holds the Swamp door open for him, and as Hawkeye passes his friend, he inhales the crisp, unmistakable scent of B.J. Hunnicutt. It always warms his insides, that scent, makes his knees a little weak. He leans toward B.J. for another sniff.

If B.J. notices, he says nothing. Instead, he moves to the still and asks, "One more, Hawk, before bed?"

Hawkeye figures, why the hell not, and nods. He sits on his cot and studies B.J. as he pours two drinks. He watches the man's beautiful hands (so skilled in surgery, so tender on his arm when B.J. absently touches him), then takes the drink that's offered to him. He sips, but he's not even tasting the gin. Instead he stares, fascinated, as B.J. dips a long finger into his own drink and then licks it. It's enough to send Hawkeye over the edge, watching that tongue lap at that finger…

For whatever reason, the buzz he's enjoying, the fact that they have the Swamp to themselves, the late hour, the erotic scene before him of B.J. licking his finger… whatever the reason, Hawkeye moves off his cot and onto B.J.'s, right up against him. B.J. looks confused, but he's smiling, and that's yet another impetus for what happens next. That killer smile. Before he loses his nerve or comes to his senses, Hawkeye leans over and kisses B.J. softly on the mouth.

B.J. doesn't do anything except kiss softly back.

When they part, Hawkeye is suddenly scared sober, and he immediately wishes he could take it back. B.J.'s not looking horrified or disgusted; he actually still has a small, if perplexed, smile on his face. But Hawkeye instinctively knows he cannot confess his feelings; the outcome will not be good. He can sense it, as if Radar has loaned him a dose of ESP for the evening.

"Sorry, Beej," he mutters. "Drank a little too much, I guess."

And B.J. laughs that sweet, understanding laugh of his. "It's OK, Hawk. That was kind of nice." As if he goes around kissing friends all the time, whether they be male or female.

Hawkeye retreats to his own cot and lies down, facing away from B.J., belatedly embarrassed. Stupid move, he thinks… stupid, stupid. He'd do anything to take it back, because it obviously wasn't the right time, and now there never will be a right time. There was only one shot and he took it, and it was all wrong.

All wrong.

As he drifts off to sleep, he can still taste B.J. on his lips. A couple of tears trickle silently down his face, because he knows he's never going to taste the man again.

"Had you ever kissed a man before?" the doctor asked, interrupting his melancholy train of thought.

Hawkeye blinked back to the present. At first the question nearly sailed over his head, but then he heard it—really heard it—and he laughed. Long and hard. "Oh doc," he said in between chortles. "There've been so many men and women in my past, it would make even you blush. Mostly women, to be sure, but men? At least a dozen." He took another drink of water, his eyes never leaving the doctor's face. "You look surprised. Don't you get many men in here who admit to having sex with other men?"

"I'm not surprised." Yeah, right, Hawkeye thought, but he let it go. "I was only wondering if this man, this B.J., was your first experience with a same-sex attraction."

Hawkeye's leg started to bounce up and down with nervous energy. He'd been sitting for a long time. "Mind if I pace a little bit, doc? My tush is gettin' tired."

The doctor, always agreeable, gestured that he could do as he wished.

Hawkeye got up and began to walk around the room, talking as he did. "My first time with a guy was when I was 19. College. He was blond and he was beautiful. Dennis. We did this kind of dance around each other… we both knew what we wanted, but we were afraid to say it, I think. I wasn't completely sure if he was thinking what I was thinking." Hawkeye picked up a knickknack on the doctor's bookshelf. It was a small replica of the Statue of Liberty. He put it back down as he continued, "Eventually, one night in my dorm room, we got around to spitting it out. We were attracted to each other, and we wanted to… express it. I kissed him first, and it was awkward and almost funny, we kept bumping noses and giggling like little girls. But… then suddenly it wasn't funny anymore, because the kisses had gotten intense, and God, did we want each other. It was scary as hell, you know? We were clumsy and self-conscious and our hands were shaking, but we peeled each other's clothes off and… honestly, it was sweet. We cared for each other, and the sex might not have been great, we were too nervous and inexperienced for that, but it felt good. We tried really hard to please each other." He smiled at the memory. "I don't think I loved him, not honest-to-God love, but I'm grateful to him, for that experience. We didn't stay together very long. A month at most."

"But you haven't made a choice, over the years. You date both men and women." It seemed to be somewhere between a statement and a question. Hawkeye decided to answer it anyway.

"I enjoy both, yes. But if somebody held a gun to my head and forced me to choose, I'd have to say I prefer men. It's just that it's so much easier to date women, as I'm sure you realize."

The doctor nodded in understanding. "Indeed."

Hawkeye had been looking out the window for the past couple of minutes, but now he whirled suddenly to face the doctor, to look him straight in the eye. "Y'know, that's the thing, doc. Or that's one of the things, anyway. I don't see myself getting married, because it would be a lie, wouldn't it? There's never been a woman that I've loved enough to marry. There was one I lived with, when I was in my residency—her name was Carlye—but I couldn't ask her to marry me. I knew she wasn't the love of my life. I did love her, but not… It wasn't fireworks and bells and angels singing. You know? It wasn't the real thing."

"Was it that with anyone… ever?"

"It was with B.J.," he said in a near-whisper. Tears formed in his eyes, and he went back to his chair and sat down, slumping a little with the weight of what he was acknowledging. Finally admitting… to somebody other than himself. "That's what I'm saying, doc. That's what I need help with. He wasn't just a crush, he wasn't just a good friend who I fantasized about. He was the love of my life. I knew it then, and I still know it now." Hawkeye felt the tears falling now, and he made no effort to stop them. After a moment, he wiped a sleeve over his cheeks. "I can't get over him. Help me, doc. Help me forget about him."

Hawkeye knew it was a tall order. Probably even impossible. What did he think this psychiatrist had, a magic memory-erasing pill? For some reason, the doctor wasn't answering, wasn't saying a word.

"I'm going to die alone, doc," Hawkeye went on, hearing the near-panic in his own voice. "I'm not going to get married or have a family, and I'm going to live out my days all by myself, alone and lonely, and… and I just don't want to do that. If I get over him, maybe I can find a good woman, you know? Maybe I can settle down with someone."

The doctor sighed, seemed to think long and hard before finally speaking. "You're a smart man, Hawkeye. You know that I can't snap my fingers and help you get over him. Nobody can. There is no magic solution, other than time—"

Hawkeye bolted out of his chair, furious. "Jesus Christ, doc, do you think I just spilled my guts to you to hear that? That lame, totally unacceptable platitude?"

"What is it you expected, Hawkeye? There isn't anything—"

But Hawkeye wasn't listening anymore. He dismissed the doctor with a disgusted wave of his hand, stalked to the door, threw it open, and left without another word.

"Waste of time, waste of money," Hawkeye grumbled to himself a half-hour later as he walked into his dad's room at the nursing home. He'd had to walk around for the past 30 minutes to calm himself down before he came for his visit, so his dad wouldn't sense the anger and frustration in him. He was still simmering, but at least he'd settled down enough to spend some quality time with his dad.

"Hey son," his dad said from his prone position in the bed. "How are you?"

"I'm fine, dad. How about you? Feeling all right?"

"Oh, I'm never feeling all right. But today I'm mostly right."

Hawkeye gave him a hug as best he could, since the old man was lying in bed, and then he set up the chessboard that was on the tray nearby. They'd play a couple of games, and then his dad would be too tired to do anything else. It was pretty much their daily routine, and it made Hawkeye sad, but at least his pop's mind was still sharp. That was something.

It was 1973. His dad was 82 and frail, dealing with numerous health issues, so many that Hawkeye'd been forced to put him into a nursing home. Hawkeye was 52 and unmarried. Still in love with a man he hadn't even seen in 20 years, not since the day they'd said goodbye in Uijongbu, South Korea.

There's no solution, that asshole psychiatrist had said, other than time.

Twenty years and counting, Hawkeye thought bitterly as he got up to leave, putting away the chessboard for another day. He leaned over and kissed his sleeping father's cheek. Twenty goddamn years.

He sighed and ambled to the door, turned around to give his father one last look. Then he turned out the light and left the room, softly shutting the door behind him.