Not That
Warnings: slash content
original character (don't worry he won't get in the way, and we'll ship him back to his unit quickly)
unrequited feelings and a bit of angst
The arrival of the wounded Sergeant Geoffrey Miles to the 4077th had been of no more than routine interest. He was checked over by Margaret and put at the end of the triage line. Dr. Pierce had operated on his arm, and once he was in post-op had explained to him that he would, the doctor thought unfortunately, be able to return to his unit in a day or so. The war had other plans.
The fighting took a sharp northward turn and the 4077th while grateful to be exempt from direct fire was distressed by the sudden lack of cleared roads. Only the most severe cases were being channeled in through enemy fire, and even the helicopters had been forbidden. Hardly anyone was getting in, and no one was getting out.
Though the patients came in a trickle, the meager number of beds filled quickly, and Sergeant Miles was trucked out with four others to share the converted VIP tent. The quarters were tight, so he spent the majority of his time roaming the camp and meeting the personnel. A few of the younger nurses fawned over his wavy brunette hair and sleek physique, and some of the older ones over his degree from a prestigious college back in the states, but he had eyes for none of them. No, his interest fell elsewhere, and, seeing as how he would only be in camp a week or so, Geoffrey figured he had nothing to lose for going after what he wanted.
Hawkeye sat in the Swamp writing a letter and sipping his, oh, fourth or fifth unearthly dry martini. It had been a long day of anxious hovering over a touchy chest case he needed to ship out and wasn't able to; he fretted over the boy's bloodwork, but there was little he could do without proper equipment, but that didn't stop him from racking his mind over and over. To make it worse, his confidant BJ was on the night shift with Charles, and while his patient was in good hands, he was left with no one to complain to.
He was deeply engaged in the spilling oh his frustrations on the paper while not spilling the martini precariously balanced between his crossed legs when three sharp raps pleaded for entrance at the door.
"Who goes there: friend, enemy, or nurse?"
"It's me," a male voice responded.
"Oh, okay, if it's you then."
Klinger shuffled through the door, one hand occupied in holding up his flowing skirt. It swished around his ankles as he turned quickly to peak out the window of the door.
"Isn't it a little late in the year for pastels?" Hawkeye questioned, vaguely eyeing the pale purple blouse that overlaid the synthetic cloth and crinoline of his similarly colored skirt.
"That's the least of my worries, sir!" Klinger continued to look one way then the other through the slittled opening under the drawn shade on the door.
"Something supersedes your fashion sense? Do tell."
Klinger turned finally, adjusting his flowered headscarf. "Well, ya see--"
"Wait," Hawkeye lifted a hand. Setting aside his paper and pen, he leaned over the edge of his cot to fumble a second martini glass from the floor. Klinger took a seat on BJ's empty cot and waited patiently while the surgeon wiped dust out of it with a none too clean corner of his red robe. Settling the glass on the table, he quickly gulped the rest of his own and refilled the two with clear liquid that could, were the recipients less knowledgeable, have passed for water.
Klinger accepted the glass directed his way, and they sat facing each other over the cluttered space between the two cots.
"Now, tell me what's got your panties in a bunch."
"It's that Sergeant Miles."
"Miles…Miles, the one with the bullet in the arm?"
"Yessir."
"He seemed like an OK guy."
"No, sir, he's rotten, absolutely rotten!" A little gin slipped over the edge of his glass and he gestured emphatically. "Sorry."
"Don't worry, that's BJ's half of the dump anyhow. So, what'd he do anyhow, cheat you out of a few bucks?"
"I wish! You know I don't hold good, honest swindling against anyone," he tossed back his drink and Hawkeye refilled both their glasses, wondering where his olives had gotten to.
"Is he real military? Try to get you outta your dress?"
"He was tryin' to get me outta my dress alright, but it had nothin' to do with military regulations."
Though he was expecting shared indignation, Klinger wasn't too surprised when Hawkeye doubled over with laughter, slapping his knee and generally enjoying the situation too much. He waited until the giggling fit had passed and Hawkeye had retrieved his glass before he continued.
"It's not funny, sir. I mean, you guys play around all the time, but he was really trying to have a go at me."
"What'd he do, offer you money?"
"No," Klinger adopted a tone of frustrated sarcasm, "he promised me 'a night of pleasure I would never forget'."
Hawkeye had been mid-sip and he choked as laughter again overtook him.
"It's not funny, Captain!"
"Klinger, he just wanted to have a little fun."
"It's not just that though," he grew more serious, pulling the tied scarf from his head and clinching it in his free hand; Hawkeye gathered himself, carefully forcing the smile from his face.
"What?"
Wide brown eye met his own: "He really thought I was, you know."
The smile returned, though a little forced, "Well you are wearing a dress."
"But that doesn't mean I'm queer!"
"Klinger," he chastened.
"Sorry, but it doesn't. I like girls as much as," he racked his brain for a suitable comparison, "as much as you do."
The self-proclaimed camp Casanova nodded slowly in response.
"I wear these things to get outta the army, but I don't want anyone thinking that I'm," the proper word wouldn't come to him, "you know."
"Homosexual?" the doctor supplied.
"Yeah."
"No one thinks that, Klinger."
"Sergeant Miles sure did. He tried to grope me and everything."
"He groped you?"
"Tried to, sir. I punched him."
"You punched him," a toneless affirmation.
"Yessir."
There was a long pause. Hawkeye killed his drink and sat the glass on the table with a dull tap. He laced his hands and let them drop between his spread knees.
"Did you punch him because he touched you, or because he thought you were a homosexual?"
Klinger took a second or two, thinking. He produced the answer with a heavy feeling that Hawkeye was going to make a point about it: "Because he thought that."
"And what's wrong with him thinking that?"
"'Cause I'm not!"
"I know that!" Hawkeye returned, "But what did it matter if one measly Sergeant thought you were? It wasn't like he was going to report you."
Klinger dropped his head, nodding slowly.
"Did you tell him no before he touched you?"
"Well, he never really, uh, did."
"Okay. So maybe you just needed a little perspective?"
"I guess so."
"And maybe you ought to apologize?" Though his lesson was delivered, Hawkeye felt it ineffectual.
"I guess so," he repeated. He handed the glass back to Pierce who remained on the bed holding it as Klinger got up and walked to the door. Carefully he retied his headscarf. "I just don't want anyone thinking I'm something I'm not, especially not that," he defended.
"Yeah," a halfhearted agreement from the surgeon who faced away from him, holding the martini glass a little too tightly. Klinger shrugged and took his exit. After the clatter of the door ceased to fill the silence, he repeated wearily, "Especially not that."
Klinger awkwardly apologized to Miles who had thankfully not reported their scuffle to Colonel Potter. Miles made his apology in return, and they had a drink at the OC and went their separate ways, Miles to a dimly lit supply room with a more willing private and Klinger to the last of his duties. Though he did ponder Hawkeye's words and did feel regret for his hasty actions, the indignation Klinger felt failed to be fully quenched. And to make matters worse, he was left to toss and turn on his cot wondering exactly who else in camp thought he was…you know.
It was late when he got back from post-op. The morning after his talk with Klinger the roads had opened up and a deluge of patients had been rushed to their front doors. He wasn't sure how long they had been in OR, but the three hour nap he had been allowed on an unused stretched suggested it was to be counted in days rather than hours. BJ and Charles had gone back to the Swamp right after, but Margaret had hesitantly retained Hawkeye for an opinion on one of his cases who had suddenly manifested a temperature. It was easily solved, and he wearily made his way back to his tent under the cover of darkness.
He entered but didn't turn on the light. It took only a moment for him to shed his boots, pants, and overshirt, letting them all fall into a disorganized heap at the foot of his cot. Quietly he crawled on top of the thin mattress, pausing to lift a half-finished martini to his lips before settling on his side and adjusting his rough blanket.
Laying there in the dark, he wondered why he hadn't already lost consciousness. His eyes flicked to the cot opposite him, and he traced the outline of BJ's form under his own blankets thinking that he could make out the edge of his mustache, just there. He recalled the tough case they had cooperated on, gloved hands brushing as they worked jointly to save a life, and when BJ had had to change sides of the table to allow in the light, the casual, unnoticed brush of their shoulders.
Hawkeye's hands threatened to occupy themselves with something less constructive than surgery, but he pushed aside the impulse. Purposefully he summoned the images he had seen in pictures: the pretty blond Peg who BJ was married to, married, he reiterated to himself harshly, and the perfect little girl with the pigtails and sunny yellow dress. He would never disrupt that.
"No," he whispered aloud, "especially not that."
-tbc?-
I'm not sure whether I'm going to go on with this or leave it be as it seems a nice little vignette on its own, but I hate to leave poor Hawkeye in such a state. Anyway, please let me know what you think, and thanks for reading!