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Trapper

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The day after BJ Hunnicutt arrived, he obediently participated in Frank's calisthenics. Most everyone did, in fact, but I refused. Even if I weren't still pissed and sporting one hell of a hangover, I wouldn't have.

At breakfast, he sat across from me at the table in the mess tent with his, oh, let's say food, and glanced up at me. He smiled. I didn't.

For the next ten minutes, I tried to focus on anything but my breakfast. California tried to focus on anything but the patient he'd lost yesterday. Not like he said anything about it…because he didn't say anything at all. But I had a faint idea of what was going on behind his eyes anyway. He hadn't lost hope yet, but he was obviously disturbed. His friendly and laid-back demeanor seemed to have disappeared after yesterday. But, good. If he hadn't been disturbed, I would've been disturbed and…well, anyway, the point is, it was a quiet and uneventful morning. For ten minutes.

Frank sat down beside California a short time after I'd eaten the edible portion of my meal and said, "Good morning, BJ. How'd you sleep, BJ?"

California's mouth twitched. He looked like he was dying to say something awful to our CO (wow, that still gives me shivers), but instead he just shrugged and smiled good-naturedly. "Oh, fine I guess."

"Listen, I don't want you to feel bad about what happened yesterday—"

"Shut up, Frank," I muttered. He didn't listen. He never listens.

"—because it happens to all of us. We've all lost one, isn't that right, McIntyre?"

"That's right Frank. Some more than others."

"And BJ," Frank went on, picking up his coffee cup. The way he said 'BJ' was really getting on my nerves. "You should know that if anything's going wrong—"

I looked up. "Frank, shut up."

"—with anyone—"

"Fra-ank," I said, and Frank continued on—though slightly faster this time.

"—even if it's someone you get close with, someone you live with—"

"Frank."

"—you should just know that I'm your friend, and if anyone harasses you—"

I slammed my hand down on the table. All three trays shook. Frank's coffee splashed out of the cup. But at least he stood up. California looked confused—and who doesn't look confused when lunatics decide to rant? Frank gave me the evil eye before moving to another table, and my new roommate glanced up at me.

I left my dishes on the table and left the tent, seething. All it took with Frank was a warning tone to get him to shut up, the assault of an inanimate object to get him to leave.

But, oh, the joy I would get from clocking the little weasel. Even giving him a good piece of my mind. It'd accomplish nothing, but it'd make me feel a tiny bit better. I didn't want California to be like him, like Frank. Even if he wasn't like Frank, I didn't want him to listen to anything Frank had to say. Maybe it was selfish of me, like I wanted to keep him all to myself. But I knew what Frank would say.

I still haven't opened Hawkeye's letter. I don't really know if I should. Not out of spite—although that is a good reason—or anything like that. More like I'm afraid, though if anyone asked me why I wouldn't know what to say.

Maybe it is out of spite, or protest or hatred. Though, deep down I know I don't really hate Hawkeye. How could I?

I just wished, at that moment, that I could see him long enough to at least give him a nosebleed.

I fingered the envelope after breakfast, pondering its contents. It was looking slightly dirty and worn around the edges. Hawkeye had evidently asked one of the nurses to place a lipstick kiss on the front. At least, I hope he'd gotten a nurse to do it. Absently, I ran my finger over the sticky lip-print, smudging it slightly in the process. It was hot pink, and at the image of Hawkeye carefully applying it in the mirror, I laughed.

"What?" California asked, laughing too, despite his earlier and understandable grouchiness. He had a very, very infectious laugh.

"Nothing," I said, shaking my head.

"What's that?" he asked, motioning at the letter.

"Nothing," I said again, and I shoved it back into my pocket.

I spent the rest of the morning in the Swamp. Reading, drinking, throwing darts, drinking, fooling with my ukulele, completing a word-find, and drinking were a few of the things I did that morning.

California had been in Post-Op all morning. I was feeling too lazy to go check up on him, but no one had come running to me saying there was a major emergency so I assumed it was all right. He returned eventually, and sat on Hawk's cot—writing in a notebook. I couldn't see it, but I did make out "love", "Peg", and "scared" more than once. He looked pale and sick from lack of sleep, but his eyes were wide and awake.

Around ten AM, when I had lost count of holes in my blanket, California said, "What was Major Burns talking about? This morning, at breakfast?"

"If there's one thing you need to know about Frank," I said, deciding I needed another drink, "It's that he's nuttier than fruitcake and twice as thick."

I half-expected him to laugh—or maybe I was hoping he would so I could hear him do it again—but he looked completely serious. Just as I'd thought, Frank had gotten to him.

"If there are two things you need to know about Frank," I said, sighing as I sat back down with a full glass of gin, "It's that he's nuttier than a fruitcake, and that you shouldn't listen to a word he says. Ever. I guess that goes without saying, though, you don't want to take the advice of a lunatic."

"So what? Was he just trying to get on my good side, or something?" California asked, looking mildly annoyed.

"No, he's trying to get you on his bad side, which is really the only side he has. Look, California…he doesn't like me. And that's okay, 'cause I don't like him either," I lowered my glass. "But…people get ideas about things. Things…that they don't actually know anything about."

California opened his mouth, but I went on before he could interrupt.

"You better stay away from Frank. Not just because it'd be a whole hell of a lot easier to live with you, but because it's better for you. You're a nice kid."

"I'm not that much younger than you," California said with a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I don't want to be friends with Frank, he's a…he's just…."

"The word you're looking for is 'rodent'," I supplied.

"Sure," he said through a yawn. "The point is, I just want to know what he was playing at. What are you going to do, kill me?"

"Maybe indirectly," I said, patting the still. "But it's nothin'. Don't pay attention to Frank. He's as dumb as he is a bad doctor."

"Wow. He must have the IQ of a fruit fly. But I guess I don't have room to talk."

"Belt?" I held up the beaker, ignoring his self-deprecation.

"Attention, all personnel. Incoming choppers. All staff report to the chopper pad immediately. Incoming choppers…."

Adding to my new roommate's paleness was fear, now. I didn't blame him. I grabbed his arm.

"Come on, California. It'll be here when we get back."

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