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Daylight crept up silently on the sleeping camp. Hawkeye watched the sun emerge from behind the mountains, casting its rays on the compound below. He hadn't suffered any more nightmares, if only for the simple reason he'd never gone back to sleep. A quick glance in his roommate's direction told him neither had B.J., though they each had done a fair job at pretending. He pulled himself into a sitting position and observed the sky slowly change from a deceptively beautiful orange glow to a washed-out, hazy blue. He could already feel the air getting warmer, and knew they were in for another torrid day.
The squeaking of a cot at the other end of the tent signaled that Charles was awake. The Bostonian sat up with a grunt, wordlessly grabbed his robe and stood from the bed. Coming into Pierce's field of vision he took his towel off the nearby hook, gave the captain a terse nod, and slipped through the door.
"He's always so cheerful in the morning," B.J.'s weary voice sounded from the corner.
"Wait 'till he gets out of the shower. He'll be repulsively chipper," Hawkeye responded absently. Unspoken words hung heavily in the air between them. He stretched painfully, trying to work out a knot in his shoulders, and stood up. "Ready to lose your breakfast?"
"I haven't had any yet," B.J. muttered as he sat up.
"Give it time." The pair changed into semi-fresh clothes and made their way to the mess tent for an equally semi-fresh breakfast. The usual din provided a strange sort of solace for B.J. as he tried to think of ways he might be able to make up for lost sleep during the day. Stopping only to ask Igor—against his better judgment—why his eggs were brown and the hash browns were yellow, he and Pierce found an unoccupied table and sat down
They traded theories as to what the mass of material on their plates had been before it wound up as food, interrupted briefly by a shriek from one of the nurses a few tables away as a roach put on a show in her coffee cup. Through it all, B.J. noticed Pierce was deliberately avoiding his eyes, even when talking directly to him—focusing instead on a point just beyond his head. He found it irritating, but didn't say anything: no doubt it had something to do with last night, and Hawkeye had made it clear it wasn't a subject open for discussion.
There was still five hours left before either of them were expected for their shift, so they took the opportunity to hit the shower and head back to their tent for a card game—using rules only they completely understood.
"That's three tens, so my total is eighty-five," Pierce announced, his wicked grin contrasting sharply with the weariness in his eyes. B.J. grunted and scratched the numbers down on a nearby pad. "I'd be two points ahead if it was Monday," he lamented, wiping sweat from his forehead. The heat wouldn't have been so bad if there was an actual breeze, but it seemed even the wind was too hot to blow.
"Ah, but then you'd need the seven of hearts, which I happen to have it my hot little hand," Hawkeye informed him triumphantly, turning the card around.
"Some guys get all the luck. Maybe we should just go back to chess—at least then I'd have a chance at beating you." B.J. reshuffled the deck as he spoke, gazing out at the compound. Pierce watched him with a quiet, almost grateful expression. Just seeing the man alive and talking was a blessing, and a constant reminder that his nightmare was just that—a nightmare. And nightmares were just irrational fears, created by the mind to work through life's problems, right?
So why am I still scared?
B.J. glanced at him and their eyes locked for the first time that day. The connection startled Hawkeye, who quickly turned his gaze away. No matter how comforting his friend's presence was, he couldn't stand to look him in the eyes. Every time he did he remembered watching the life drain from them, gruesomely transforming from their usual bright blue to a chilling, shrouded gray.
B.J. frowned, not sure whether to be concerned or hurt. "Is there a reason you've been avoiding me?" he asked finally.
"I'm not avoiding you. We're playing cards, aren't we?" Pierce responded, fixing his gaze to the cot behind B.J.
"You're playing cards. I'm losing my shirt," B.J. retorted. "And you know what I mean. I wake up to find you staring at me, and today you keep flinching like you're expecting me to break your neck. If I did something wrong, I think I at least have the right to know." He set the deck of cards down and leaned forward, trying to catch the man's eye again.
Instead, Hawkeye gazed stubbornly outside the tent. "You didn't do anything." He stared off into the distance, his expression just as far away. B.J. watched him intently; at that moment he would have gladly given a year's salary to know what his friend was thinking.
Pierce rubbed his eyes and sighed. "Sorry, Beej. I just n...I've got a lot on my mind." He forced himself to look B.J. squarely in the eyes, visibly uncomfortable with the act. "I'll be fine," he added unconvincingly, before turning away again.
B.J. squinted at him in annoyance, but held back his frustration; he knew pushing would only drive the man further away. Holding up his hands in surrender, he said, "Okay, I give. But you know where to find me." A yawn sneaked up on him, so he stood up and headed over to his cot. "Which, for the remaining two hours, will be under the covers." Sinking into the bunk, he gave Hawkeye a contemplative look. "You might wanna get some rest too," he added meaningfully. "You won't get another chance until after your shift."
Hawkeye shook his head, almost vehemently. "Nah, I'm not tired." Liar, his mind accused. He swirled the contents of his martini glass, concentrating on the motion.
The same word echoed in B.J.'s mind, but he shrugged it away. "Suit yourself." He settled in and prepared for two hours of glorious sleep.
Ten minutes later, that dream was promptly shattered by the sound of approaching helicopters. A voice sounded over the PA system: "Attention—attention. Incoming wounded. The winners of today's King of the Hill game are arriving at the helipad. Be sure to give your congratulations to the team captain when the rest of him gets here."
Pierce set the glass down and stood. "Come on, Beej. We need to get there early if we want good seats."
"No," a stubborn voice came from beneath the blanket. "I just got here. You go ahead, Hawk, I'll sit this dance out."
"I need a partner, and you're the only one who can stand me," Pierce insisted wearily, peeling back the blanket and gently tugging B.J.'s arm. "Let's go."
B.J. grumbled and sat up. "All right, but the next time Truman invites me to a party I'm staying home." He followed Hawkeye out of the tent, wishing he had just stayed in bed—all the way back in Mill Valley.
The O.R. was quieter than usual, mostly because everyone was just too hot to say or do more than necessary. The lack of ventilation, combined with the necessary protection of heavy sterile scrubs, did nothing to alleviate the situation.
"Colonel, would it be too much to ask the Army—who so joyously sent us on this field trip of the macabre with the alacrity of a galloping war horse—to at least turn down this wretched heat?" Charles asked, turning to his nurse to have his forehead mopped for the umpteenth time. While he would never admit the Winchester family was just as prone to sweating as everyone else, he didn't plan to let that pride get in the way of his operation.
"Pipe down, Major," Colonel Potter replied irritably as he concentrated on suturing the soldier in front of him. "You're not the only one suffering. I've been downing salt tablets like they were candy, and poor Radar's been swimming in his glasses."
"I hope he has enough room in those glasses for two," Pierce remarked, trying to dismiss the itch between his shoulder blades. He scrutinized the body underneath his scalpel, searching for any last tell-tale signs of glinting metal.
"Make that three," B.J. added. "I could use a good swim right now." He'd lost track of how many hours they had been working. He gazed down at his sixth—seventh?—patient of the day, a boy who looked more at home behind a school desk than a rifle.
"Gentlemen, your witty repartee is even less appreciated today than it ever has been," Charles commented acridly. "Kindly keep your inane drivel within the increasingly hollow space between your ears."
"Can someone find some ballast for Charles? He's full of even more hot air than usual," Pierce shot back. "We don't want him floating away."
Charles snorted and glared in his direction. "If my brain wasn't threatening to ooze out through my pupils, Pierce, rest assured you would be receiving a sound thrashing."
"Ah, the thrashing," Pierce began histrionically, pausing only to ask for 3-0 silk. "Second cousin to the whipping, illegitimate half-brother of the shy yet elegant beating, whose mother's frequent trysts with paddling, the bawdy black sheep of the family, were—"
"Can we all just learn to shut up and get on with it?" a loud yet distinctly feminine voice rang out. Major Margaret Houlihan had been working silently next to Pierce, determined to be a good example to the other nurses in the sweltering heat, but was rapidly losing patience. "It's hard enough to breathe in here without you three taking up all the air."
"Sorry, mother," Pierce responded, his tone suggesting otherwise.
Silence descended again. The soft chime of metal hitting metal sounded as B.J. dropped a piece of shrapnel into the dish next to him. "Maybe we should wash that off and put it with his belongings," he told the nurse next to him. "Another one and he can make a pair of earrings for his girlfriend."
"Hell of a way to get a souvenir," Pierce muttered.
"Well, you know kids these days, Hawk, they can't—aw, great." B.J. had been trying to remove a metal fragment next to the patient's artery when blood began spurting from it. A bright red arc shot upward, spraying his face and mask and barely missing his eyes. "Could we get a clamp on that, nurse?" he asked. "I see enough blood as it is without having to wear it."
"Yes, doctor." The nurse handed him a clamp, and he quickly had the flow under control. She wiped a little of the blood from his face, and with a bit of sponging he was able to find the offending shrapnel again.
What he didn't see was Pierce staring straight at him, the scalpel in his hand long forgotten. No one even noticed the man's behavior until Margaret, realizing he had stopped working, glanced up. "Doctor?"
Hawkeye didn't respond, still staring at B.J. Margaret saw his face rapidly turning pale and his breathing getting more ragged. "Are you all right, Pierce?" she asked, alarmed.
This drew the attention of everyone in the room, including B.J. His eyes met his friend's for the second time that day, and what he saw made him freeze.
Even from two tables away he could see that, behind the mask, Pierce's eyes were filled with nothing less than absolute horror.