Disclaimer: his is the very slash story, and the first M*A*S*H fanfiction I've ever written.
I do not own M*A*S*H.
It wasn't for love. It wasn't for companionship. It wasn't for any of those things it's typically for. It was just for the release. That's all they got out of it, all they ever wanted to get out of it. Or, at least, that's what they told each other. That there were no feelings; it was just the relief, just the sheer animalistic desire. They both knew it wasn't true. Hawkeye was just as much in love with B.J. as B.J. was in love with Hawkeye. Nothing; no words, no actions, or lack thereof would ever or could ever change that. But it was never admitted.
Not when late night rendezvous in the supply closet were had, or when Hawkeye was barely able to keep his voice down to a whisper because of B.J. It was never said, because it could never be said. They both knew the other one too well. Their love was mutual, and it was known to be mutual, but if it was spoken of, it would shatter the illusion, their feeling of absolute safety.
One evening in particular, after a second round in the supply closet, did B.J. look Hawkeye in the eye and almost say it.
"I…" B.J. started only to stop, frown, and looked away when he saw Hawkeye flinch. He instead adjusted his vision to the stack of morphine in the corner. "I think that we should probably put in another order for morphine…" B.J. said, making a very poor save. Hawkeye just stared at him for several silent moments, allowing the reality of what B.J. just almost said to sink into his thoughts.
"How's your wife?" Hawkeye asked, coolly. It was typical banter for the two of them, regardless of what was about to, or had just transpired. Hawkeye asked about B.J.'s family, and B.J. asked about Hawkeye's father, just to make small talk. Just to avoid saying those three vile little words that ached to come out of both their mouths. But for some reason, today, B.J. felt Hawkeye's question like a slap to his face. Sitting up, he started to take off his shirt, which, thanks to Hawkeye, had been slightly torn. This happened frequently enough, that B.J. usually carried a second shirt with him to change into.
Upon the shirt's removal, however, Hawkeye turned away from him. B.J. said nothing as he pulled the other shirt over his face, but sat and stared at Hawkeye for a few seconds before asking him, "Why did you turn around?" It seemed odd, to him. Hawkeye had seen him completely naked on many occasions, shirtless almost three times as many times as he had seen him naked. But Hawkeye had turned away… Why?
Hawkeye shrugged, and turned back to face B.J., "A forgotten sense of propriety, I suppose." B.J. would have laughed at the statement on any other occasion, but Hawkeye's voice indicated no humor, no cheerfulness, so B.J.'s laugh got caught in his throat. Hawkeye stood up, zipped and buttoned up his pants, and pulled a small note out of his pocket, and laid it beside B.J. before leaving the supply closet, murmuring something about a date with a nurse.
B.J. picked up the note, a half sheet of paper folded over about four times. He opened it, and looked at the writing and couldn't help but feel shocked, relieved, but most all, absolutely thrilled.
"i love you. don't say it back, i already know. i just needed to tell you, for myself.
sorry,
hawkeye."