A Tale of Three Fruitcakes
(A response to the prompt "fruitcake.")
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"Did your wife seriously send you a fruitcake?" Hawkeye said with a horrified expression on his face.
"Now, be nice or you won't get any," B.J. said, balancing the open box on his lap and contemplating the concoction inside.
"I don't want any, thank you!" Hawkeye sniffed in the general area of the care package and recoiled. "I have to tell you—and this is really saying something—I'd eat almost anything in the mess tent before I'd eat that."
"Fine. More for me, then."
"If you have a death wish."
"You're overreacting. Fruitcake isn't that bad. Maybe you should open your mind and try some." He held out the box.
Hawk stepped back. "Keep that away from me!"
B.J. had to laugh. "That's a pretty extreme hatred you've got going, Hawk. You know what? I accept the challenge."
Hawkeye looked at him closely. "What challenge would that be?"
"To get you to try this fruitcake." He once again lifted the box in Hawkeye's direction.
"Won't happen," Hawk said, setting his jaw. "I'm not eating any and you can't make me." Suddenly he sounded and looked very much like a petulant child. Hell of it was, it was very endearing on him.
B.J. sat there on his cot, thinking for a long time, as Hawkeye watched, looking wary and yet somehow intrigued. "How about," B.J. finally said, a gleam in his eye, "if you eat a piece of this fruitcake, I'll shave off my moustache."
Hawkeye's eyes widened and a smile slowly spread across his face. B.J. knew he'd hit pay dirt. "And you can't grow it back," Hawk insisted, pointing a finger.
B.J. tilted his head, "Fine, fine. But you have to eat an entire piece, Hawk. A piece that I cut for you."
"Deal. Deal," Hawkeye said, sitting down next to B.J. on the cot.
B.J. cut a larger-than-average slice of fruitcake and Hawkeye held his nose, but he did, in fact, eat it all… quickly and without complaint.
When the last bite was swallowed, he spread his arms. "There. All done." He smiled, rubbing his hands together, and said, "Off with it, Hunnicutt."
B.J. started to laugh.
"What?" Hawkeye snapped. "You're going to welsh on this bet? Is that it?"
"No, no. I'm going to shave off my moustache. As promised. Only thing is…"
Hawk squinted at him, "Whaaaaat?"
He put a hand on Hawkeye's shoulder and confessed. "I was going to shave it off anyway. Potter asked me to. And I told him I would; I'm kind of tired of it."
"Why, you dirty—" As Hawkeye tackled B.J., the two of them falling back onto the cot, the care package and its precious contents went flying off B.J.'s lap, landing face-down on the positively filthy Swamp floor.
The two men watched it happen, then looked at each other. "You better make that up to me," B.J. whispered.
"Consider us even," Hawkeye said, and then smiled. He leaned in for a kiss. "I hope," he said just before his mouth met B.J.'s, "that I taste like fruitcake."
