Day 2

I don't have the best night's sleep. Not that I ever do, mind - not when I have a hospital full of dying patients just across the dirt-track – but on this occasion I wake repeatedly dreaming not of severed limbs and spurting arteries, but of blue eyes and a chiselled jawline, and me saying something not-awful for once.

"Hawkeye?"

I smile, stirring and nestling deeper into my pillow. "Mmmm. You called me Hawkeye."

"I always call you Hawkeye."

I start awake and sit up, blinking. "Beej?"

BJ is sitting on my bed wearing bloody scrubs and an amused smile. "Who else?"

"That's a good question." I stretch sleepily, scratching my ribs with one hand and rubbing my eye with the other – I'm very talented that way. "Changeover?"

"Yup. New batch of wounded for you, get 'em while they're hot." Ah, Beej. He's slipped right into the army like he's been here all his life – alcoholism, insomnia, and a morbid sense of humour. I watch as he limps off to his own bed, kicking off his boots before collapsing, fully clothed on top of the blankets. He looks like he's out before he hits the mattress, and so I set about finding my boots in silence.

"Who was she?" Oh, not asleep, it would appear.

"Who was who?"

"The girl you were dreaming about."

"Never you mind."

"Ooh, a dirty little secret!" He flips onto his back, grinning at the ceiling, eyes closed.

"Something like that."

"She married?"

I bristle at his quip. I don't think I like this guessing game. "What makes you jump straight to 'married'?"

He shrugs, tucking his hands behind his head. "All the best girls are married." And he grins a little wider. And I can tell he's off in Peg-land and couldn't give two figs about my dirty little secret.

I let the conversation lie. May as well. I don't have anything to say in response – he didn't mention anything about best boys at all.


I hit the scrub room again – doesn't feel like five minutes since I left – and get changed and cleaned. Gown, gloves, mask... "I'm ready for my patient, Mr DeMille!" A bump of the hip to the door and I'm through into the O.R. – over on the far side this time – and straight to work, on autopilot, listening as a nurse reels off a list of fractures and shrapnel and bleeds (oh my!) Just another day at the office.

It's quiet in here. I let it remain so, just getting on with my work. I have to say, I do a good job, given what I had to work with. The guy might even live. "Okay, I'm done here."

As they take the poor schmuck away, I allow myself a brief glance through the window in the door opposite. Klinger's at the desk, hen-pecking away at a type-writer, probably trying to work out how to spell 'report'. Rogers must be on his break. Oh good – that means I can't say anything to upset him again, unless the guy's already having nightmares about me. Wincing, I allow myself a thirty second break to rehearse an apology in my head before they bring in the next casualty and it starts all over again.

It's dark again by the time we're done. Another three meals hand fed to us over our tables; another half a dozen cups of coffee slurped through straws as we stand there wrist-deep in guts; an elaborate and barely-choreographed danse macabre performed to the dulcet tone of a squadron of bombers and heavy artillery in the distance. Boom ka-boom, cha-cha-cha.

The O.R. looks like a bomb's hit it, too: everything in disarray, casualties of war collapsed in corners, the nurse asleep on her chair by the gas cylinders, Frank trying to read a patient's file through his eyelids, and BJ curled up on an operating table. I take a moment to stare at him, trying to figure out how I'm going to get him back to the Swamp.

As I do so, he reaches out and grabs my wrist. "You goin' my way, soldier?"

He's out of it. May as well leave him here. "Going? You're gone, Beej."

"I am?"

"Hundred percent."

"Okay. I'll wait here so's you can catch up."

I smile and tuck his hand gently back on the table. "You do that."

"Mmm. Nighty night."

"Yeah, goodnight."

I glance up. There's movement over in the office – a light on, and somebody moving around. Could be anybody – Klinger, Potter, a dozen or so rats in a field jacket – but it's worth a shot. I've rehearsed this about a hundred times by now, so there's no point in dragging it out any longer.

Taking a deep breath, I dump my mask, cap and gown, and stride through, shoving the door open with a determined optimism that is probably woefully misplaced and ill-conceived.

Thud! CRASH.

"Ow!"

And clumsy as shit.

"Oh hell, I'm sorry."

"It's nothing."

"No, please, let me get this."

"I said it's nothing!"

"No, it's fine. I just... I'm sorry. I should have..."

There are papers all over the floor, out of their folders and drifting under the desk and under the table. I'm on my knees in an instant, grovelling around in the dust and trying frantically to retrieve them all. I glance upwards for a split second, long enough to register Rogers standing there behind the door I just hit him with, clutching an empty filing tray and nursing a sore elbow. Funny – he looks tall from this angle.

What I don't register is the open filing cabinet he was loading up when I burst in. With my arms full of papers, I stand, striking the top of my head right on the corner of the metal drawer. The papers go flying again, and this time I'm the one shouting in pain.

"I'm sorry," I say again, moaning a little as the world revolves and tilts at some interesting angles that I'm sure betray the laws of physics and astronomy, but the lights sure are pretty... "I'll get those."

He makes a noise somewhere between a sigh and a snort, grabs me by the arms – oh, hands! Hands on me! Oh, this is unexpected! – and rotates me ninety degrees to lean against the desk. "Stay there," he says. "Don't move. And please, whatever you do, don't help."

I do as I'm told and stay put, nursing my sore head, and watching as he crawls around retrieving the papers again. It would be quite a nice thing to watch, if I my head wasn't hurting so much. At least I don't have concussion. And I'm not bleeding, so that's good.

Papers retrieved, Rogers dumps them all in his file tray and drops it – carefully – onto the desk.

I smile at the neat little tray. "There. See, no harm done."

"Actually, I–" he eyes the tray with no small amount of irritation "–have to sort those again... now."

"Oh." My shoulders sag, but not half as much as his. "I'm sorry."

He blinks at me and rubs at the bridge of his nose, clearly exhausted. "Forget it. Was there something you wanted?"

I stare at him, momentarily thrown by the pain in my head and the distracting, flustering impact of the cute guy asking the question. "Something I wanted?"

He gestures to the door and rubs his elbow again. "Yes, when you came in just now. You looked... purposeful. Did you want something?"

Oh. Right. Yes. Purpose, wanting, something. That was it. I shake my head once more to clear the fog, and stumble forth into what was, at some point, a well thought out speech: "I just wanted to say I'm sorry."

He looks at me, his face blank like he doesn't have the faintest clue what I'm referring to. And then, after a few seconds, his mouth curls into a smirk, then a grin, and he laughs. He laughs like I've just said the funniest thing ever to be heard in Korea – and we'd had Bob Hope! He throws his head back and holds his sides and rocks back and forth, and God help me he's delightful.

And then I realise – I've barely said anything other than 'sorry' since I came in here. For some reason, probably exhaustion and embarrassment, I start to laugh too.

He falls silent at last, shaking his head and rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. "I must be tired," he says with a grin, "because that was not that funny."

"The war does that to you," I reply with a grin. "We treat it here all the time. Cabaret fatigue: once a guy sees too many variety show comics, his sense of humour just can't take it anymore. Next thing you know, he starts laughing at Doris Day movies."

He's calmer now, staring back at me with those icy blue eyes, smiling but reserved. "Is that right?" He's toying with me, I can see it. He doesn't trust me, so he's poking me to see if I bite.

"A tragic case."

"Uh-huh." He takes a step back and folds his arms.

Okay, that's enough. I change tack and drop the act. "Look, I'm sorry about earlier."

"You are, huh?"

"Yes. Very. Extremely."

"I see."

"So I just wanted to apologise for being a jerk."

"Oh, you did?"

"Yeah."

"Which time when you were a jerk? The time when you insulted me or the time when you made a cheap joke at my expense in front of the entire staff?"

Ouch. He doesn't pull his punches. My lousy feeling increases ten-fold. It wasn't deliberate, not on either count, but I guess that doesn't matter much. "Either? Both? The worst one first and then the second? If you like I can come back in and apologise twice?"

He gives a snort of a laugh and shakes his head. "And risk sending my paperwork flying again? Let's not."

"Okay."

He goes quiet, and the conversation stutters and stalls. He turns away, taking his box of papers and resting them on top of the open drawer in order to sort them again. There is no further discussion. He stares intently at a typed and stapled document sighs, then tosses it onto the desk: Klinger's Daily Report, 'report' spelled 'R-I-P-P-O-R-T. Poor guy – he's gonna have to type that up again... I'm beginning to think I should leave.

"Do you always do that?"

The question takes me by surprise, somewhat out of left field, like there's being a whole other lead-up to it that was only in his head and I had no part in. "Do what?"

Another pause. He stares at another document, but makes no move to discard it or file it. I watch his Adam's apple bob twice in quick succession. He wets his lips. "Make jokes like that in front of the men?"

I see where this is going. I hadn't expected this, although I probably should have. "I'm... a little renowned for it, yeah."

He sniffs and nods. "You should watch that," he says in a soft, sombre tone. "You could get in trouble that way."

"I haven't yet." I don't mean to sound flippant – I'm aiming for reassurance.

"Or you could get someone else in trouble."

"That wasn't my intention. But...you're right, I was a little..." What was the word I had in mind for this part? I had a word. A carefully selected word. I thought of it while I was fishing for shrapnel in some poor guy's intestines. "Reckless," I decide on at last. "I'm sorry. I didn't think."

Another snort, and he tosses aside his filing box. "Guys like you never do." He's exhausted, rubbing at his face with one hand and leaning on the cabinet with the other. He yawns, and I yawn too, a psychological explanation for that particular phenomenon ghosting across my brain as scraps of useless trivia tend to do. In spite of my exhaustion, I can see what he's getting at. Tall, exuberant womanisers are the last in line to be suspected of homosexuality. Small, delicate, softly spoken secretaries on the other hand...

"You're right. I took a risk with something that wasn't mine to chance. I won't do it again."

"Well..." He pauses, staring at the floor in the corner, like he can't quite look me in the eye. "I guess you've got no reason to now, have you?" And then he looks right at me. Not ice this time: steel.

Now it's my turn to swallow. "I guess not."

He nods, and I believe we have reached an accord. "Okay." A tired, weary sigh escapes him. "Could you move, please? I need to re-type yesterday's report."

I move, and he sits, rubbing his eyes as he attempts to focus on the keys and the report through his exhaustion. "Would you like me to read it for you?"

"If you could, that would be a help."

His response is devoid of emotion, and at this point I can't tell whether he hates me or might have just fallen in love with me. He gives nothing away, and God help me if this isn't the most intriguing, fascinating, alluring thing I've ever known!

We sit and work in quiet, professional peace, silent other than my dictation and his rhythmic click-clacking of keys. He's a fast typist, and accurate. We skip through the document in no time. Quite a team! We should do more things together... I can think of a few.

"I'm sorry I insulted you as well," I add quite spontaneously as he staples the document together and drops the original in the trash.

He looks up at me, and a satisfied smile appears on his face. "Thank you."

"If it makes any difference I didn't mean it."

He scoffs at that, turning away to file the report under the correct tab. "I find that rather hard to believe."

"Why? Do I come across that callous to you?" I try to lean closer, but my co-ordination is shot through tiredness and I place my hand on the back of the office chair, which swivels and causes me to flail in a clumsy tangle of limbs as I regain my poise. I bat my eyelashes.

He stares at me, then goes back to his files. "You said I was the size of a filing cabinet."

"Yes, but I didn't mean it as a bad thing."

"You think I'm short." His voice raises a little, and he pouts. He actually pouts. "Comically so, it would appear."

"Actually I think you're adorable." Oh God, did I just say that? I must be tired, because this is dangerous territory and I probably shouldn't be doing this. But for once I'm not putting my foot in it by making fun out of him – if he knocks me back I can deal with it. At least I said something nice for once!

And he stares at me, eyes wide. And then, just as bizarrely, he laughs. Like, really laughs. Oh God, Cabaret fatigue strikes again! I sure know how to pick 'em! Here I am, sleep deprived and overworked and fawning over a guy who hates my jokes and laughs at my compliments and apologies. Well, if this isn't a match made in Heaven...

No, it's a match made in the army.

"That wasn't supposed to be funny."

Still laughing, he shakes his head and finally stuffs the report in the right folder – which, in case he hasn't figured it out yet, is under W for 'waffle to send to ICORP'. "I don't know," he says, retrieving the rest of the papers and prodding at them. "First you insult me, and now you're..." He waves a hand in confusion.

"I think you'll find that was a compliment, Sergeant."

He laughs again. "Apparently!"

"Is that not better?"

Smiling, he raises his eyebrows in what appears to be a half-hearted attempt at an eye roll, only his heart – and his eyeballs, for that matter – aren't in it. "You're really quite the character you know?" he muses as he continues to sort his papers.

"In what kind of story?" Grinning, I kick my legs out and cross my ankles, arms folded, just making myself cosy on his desk.

He shoots me a pointed look. "In one where the lead guy is very tired, and not making a lot of sense, and needs to go to bed." He spots my posture, gives my boots a kick and snags my elbow in one hand to tug me off his desk.

"You're right, that's a great idea. I think yours is nearest."

He gives a funny squawk of a laugh that's about one third a yelp of indignant fury, one third amusement, and one third – even though I do say so myself – excitement, and chivvies me towards the door. "You can't say things like that!" His voice is breathless, like I've squeezed all the air out of him with words.

"I'm sorry. I'll stop. Do you want me to stop?"

He looks at me, eyes wide, mouth slightly slack like he's too overwhelmed to hold his jaw closed. We've come to a halt somewhere near the door, his hand still on my arm, the other at my chest. His eyes dart away, around the empty office, to the door to post-op, the O.R., Potter's office, and pre-op. And, finally, back to me. He hesitates, licks his lips, and then replies: "No."

It's barely a whisper, but that one little word lights fireworks in my heart. Although, actually, that could just be the mess tent hot dogs. I smile at him warmly, and his fingers tighten a little at my shirt. I'd kiss him, but I think that might be overstepping. "Do you want me to come back tomorrow?" It's a nice, light request. Not imposing, not pushing. "I can apologise more. You seem to like that."

He laughs.

"See? Just the thought of it makes you laugh."

He falls quiet, screwing his face up in a hilarious way as he forces the laugh back down.

"Besides, I've got a six pack of piss-weak Japanese beer in my footlocker. We can share it and get not-drunk." I shoot him my broadest, most charming smile, and watch in delight as his ears turn bright red.

"If I say yes," he ventures with as much composure as a man can muster when he's turning puce at the attentions of another guy, "will you please go and get some sleep? I don't want to be running to the Colonel to tell him his chief surgeon collapsed in my office."

My heart soars, and I fear I might have to lean on the door to stop from falling. Although, that could be the exhaustion. "Great. We'll pick up tomorrow. It's a date. I'll wear my best evening gown and wash my hair for you specially."

He rolls his eyes again, this time with far more effective results, detracted only by the embarrassed grin that's taken up residency a few inches below. "You're terrible, Captain." He gives me chest a weak shove and I humour him by pretending to stagger back a couple of paces.

"Actually, I'm Hawkeye." I grin at him, loitering with one hand on the door handle, quite loath to leave this encounter. "I didn't catch your name, Sergeant Rogers."

I see him hesitate, like he feels it's improper or something – that's a laugh, after the tone of the conversation we've just had – and once again he glances about to check there's nobody listening. Having decided it's safe, he tells me: "Steve."

My grin softens to a smile. Steve.

"Now, will you please leave before you fall down?!" He nods towards the door and retreats a pace or two, arms folded, in case I try to sway him with some sort of... physically romantic persuasion. Not that I could in this state, but it's sweet that he thinks I'm capable of being quite so energetic after a 36 hour deluge.

"Alright, I'll let you get your zee-zees." I open the door and lean on it as I give him one last look. "G'night, Steve."

And as I leave, I hear the quietest reply, barely murmured as the door closes behind me: "Night, Hawkeye."

Oh. Oh! May the Lord have mercy on my hopelessly romantic soul!


The stars are out and the crickets are chirping. It's good to hear them – it means the jets are gone, which means the bombardment has stopped, which means we're all out of bombed human beings, at least for now. It's funny how the sound of bombers thundering overhead every two minutes just becomes white noise once you've heard it for so long. I cross the compound to the Swamp, subdued by fatigue but dancing on the inside. The tent is still and quiet, with Frank notable by his absence. His evenings with Margaret have become more frequent, more prolonged, and less subtle. It's nice not having to deal with him, and I settle myself on my cot in blessed silence to unlace my boots.

"Where were you?"

I start a little, and glance over to the cot opposite. "I thought you were sleeping in the O.R."

BJ rolls over and his cot creaks under his weight. "I was, but I woke up with a pain in my shoulder and a numb foot. I thought you'd be here."

"Yeah, I... had a thing to take care of."

"Oh." There's a suggestive tone to BJs voice, and he settles on his back, hands tucked behind his head. "Who was she?"

I kick my boots off and cock my head at him. "I don't kiss and tell." No lie there. I didn't even kiss, so there's nothing to tell anyway. Standing, I divest myself of my scrubs and fling them across the room onto Frank's cot.

"Yes you do!" BJ chuckles, his cot creaking beneath him as his body shakes. "That's how it works – you kiss, you tell me, and I get to live vicariously through you. A married man has to have some pleasures when the love of his life is over five thousand miles away."

"Not tonight, honey, I have a headache." Comfortable in t-shirt and boxers, I clamber into my uncomfortable but welcoming bed, shivering a little at the cold sheets.

There's silence from the other side of the Swamp. And then: "You really are fooling around with a married woman, aren't you?"

I wince. There's real anger in BJ's voice – this isn't an accusation he takes lightly. BJ is understanding of most of my vices, putting all judgement aside and recognising my dalliances for the harmless sources of mutual comfort they are, but I know well enough that there's a line in the sand where some things are concerned. Sighing, I close my eyes and address the canvas above me. "No, I'm really not. I just... don't wanna talk about my lovelife when I've barely slept in two days!"

This much is true. I may not have crossed that line, but there's a very real possibility that I've crossed another, and I'm not about to go poking around in BJ's moral sandbox to try and find out.

Silence. Blissful, welcome, silence.

The light snaps on.

"Are you okay?"

"I'm fine! I just don't feel like talking right now."

More silence. I look over at him.

"Would you turn the light off?"

"And you're sure you're okay."

"I said I'm fine! Other than being exhausted, something which could be easily treated with sleep!"

He stares at me for a moment, like he doesn't quite believe me – which, let's be honest, I can't blame him for – and then, at last, he snaps the light off.

We lie in uncomfortable silence.

This isn't good. No, this isn't the right course at all. I always share with Beej. I share and I squeal over the details and wax ecstatic about the best parts and whisper the pornographic parts, and then he smiles and tells me how lucky I am and then goes right back to writing his wife and I realise that he's absolutely sure in his belief that he's even luckier. And that's great, because that's Beej, y'know? Sometimes he might put a face to a name, and then he'll raise an eyebrow and give me a knowing nod as a particular nurse walks past our table in the mess tent, but that's it. He's totally respectful. Never gave me reason to doubt him. And yet here I am, obviously doubting him.

I need a new plan.

"I was with... uh... the new nurse that shipped in yesterday."

"New nurse?"

"Yeah." Okay, that was terrible.

"I didn't see any new nurse."

"Of course you didn't. You're married, remember."

"But I don't even..."

"You saw her vicariously. I promise."

There's a pause. "Why are you being so cagey?"

He's right. This really is a terrible story.

"She's Catholic." Better. Much better. "It was kind of a big step for her, and she didn't want anybody to know. It has to be a secret, so..."

"Oh." I can hear realisation dawning. "Right." And then: "Are you sure that's such a good idea?"

"Beej!" I roll my eyes and press a hand to my aching head. "Could you drop it? She's dealing with a lot. It's... sort of personal." In a funny way, it's not far from the truth, aside from being a complete lie.

"Well, I'm sorry, Hawk. I didn't mean to pry."

"It's okay, Beej," I reply, talking through my eyelids and pulling the covers up to my chin. "You weren't to know."

There's a relived sigh from BJ's corner of the tent, and a rustle of blankets as he settles himself once more. "Night, Hawk."

I sigh as well, out of relief more than anything, and do the same. "Night, Beej." I allow myself to drift into the arms of Morpheus, wondering how I'm going to explain to Steve that, as far as my roommate is concerned, he's now a Catholic army nurse who's just lost her virginity to me in the supply room.