It's not like up on the landing pad. BJ doesn't scatter this time. He loses consciousness completely and is carried away by the storm. Oblivion claims him and it feels like a very long time before he's ready to resurface. He dreams a lot down there in the dark, strange dreams of smoke and explosions. All of them are haunted by Hawkeye who calls out to him from far away, begging to be saved. When he cracks his eyes open in post-op some time later, those screams are still echoing around in his brain.

BJ opens his eyes cautiously at first, mindful of his concussion and anticipating the worst. But there is thankfully not much pain or nausea.

They've put him in one of the last cots in the row, the one closest to the door, and there's a nurse sitting at the foot of his bed. BJ blinks into the weak light of the tent and sees that she's concentrating on his lower leg. Every so often he can feel a pressure there as she prods the shrapnel wounds, but again, no pain. A moment later she must find what she was looking for and a quiet tinkling can be heard as she deposits whatever it was into a little metal basin on the cart positioned beside her. She hasn't noticed he's awake yet, but BJ is fine with that for right now. Once she does, he'll have to start facing things again. People will want to poke and prod at him. But more importantly, he'll have to ask the hard questions. The ones he doesn't want the answers to at the moment. He prefers to go on in ignorance, at least for a little while longer, and takes in his surroundings instead.

His body feels heavy and he imagines he would be in a great deal of pain if it were not for the strong painkillers he suspects he's been given. They have him on fluids as well. An IV is attached to the back of his hand and its tube snakes up from it and towards the bottles of clear saline hanging from the pole beside his bed. There's also a bottle that looks suspiciously like it was once full of plasma. The places he remembers being injured still ache, but his headache and the breath-stealing lightning bolts of pain he was feeling earlier thanks to his concussion seem to have faded. The only uncomfortable thing he's experiencing at the moment is that strange tugging sensation as his nurse continues her work.

Risking a small turn of his head, BJ takes a moment to digest the world around him, post Storm. The ward is quiet in what he suspects is early morning calm. A pale light can be seen through the plastic covered holes punched into the tent side people keep trying to convince him are windows. Every bed in the two rows is occupied and BJ realizes he knows most of the inhabitants. His stomach flips and his heart grows heavy in his chest. These are people he lives with, shares his meals with. People whose names and ranks he has committed to memory because they've been together in the trenches of Korea for so long. People he failed yesterday when he went looking for Hawkeye at the crash sites instead of returning to the OR to help with the casualties. He wonders how many of them would be up and walking, instead of laid up in here, stewing in the stench of antiseptic, blood, and hidden decay, had BJ not been so selfish.

The guilt is too much, and he rolls his head in the other direction so he no longer has to look at the scene of his own making anymore. He's surprised to discover a slumbering Father Mulcahy napping fitfully in a chair on the other side of his cot, chin resting on chest as he snores lightly. BJ hadn't even noticed the man.

Father Mulcahy is dressed in the vestments of his station, but everything is slightly askew. His collar is not quite as straight as it should be and his uniform is rumpled and stained. There are lines of exhaustion etched on his face. Lines that weren't there the last time BJ saw him. The fact that Mulcahy chose his bed to keep vigil by stirs something deep in his heart, a strange sort of sense of belonging mixed with guilt. He's no more deserving of the Padre's time than any other man in here. Regardless, it looks like the Father has been up most of the night and might have news of Hawkeye. BJ is just about to reach out and touch the man on the leg to rouse him when a voice from the end of his bed stops him.

"Please don't."

For a moment, BJ is worried that he inadvertently moved his leg and interrupted the woman's work, but the look on her face tells him otherwise. She only has eyes for Father Mulcahy. "He only just fell asleep."

The Priest lets out a sigh and mumbles something incoherent under his breath. BJ decides in that moment that his nurse is right. He shouldn't be disturbed.

"Has he been here long?" BJ asks in an exaggerated whisper.

"Ever since they brought you in. But I think he's been around the hospital since just after the shelling started. I was only just able to talk him into sitting down."

The young woman rises from her chair and comes to stand beside his cot. It takes everything in BJ not to swat her hands away as she begins taking his vitals and scratching the results down on his chart.

"I'm Emily, by the way," she says as she lifts his gown to check on the damage hidden beneath it. So much for getting out of wearing one.

"BJ Hunnicutt," he mutters back irritably.

"So I've heard." She's smirking a little as she rehangs his chart on the hook at the foot of his bed. "Scuttlebutt around camp is that you ran off into a minefield to pull Captain Pierce out. You're quite the celebrity around here."

BJ would have huffed at that, except Emily's earlier prodding has awoken old hurts and it comes out sounding more like a groan. She checks his pulse again, smile fading. "How are you feeling? Any pain?"

"I'm fine," he says dismissively. The discomfort he's in is not the only reason for his racing pulse. He nearly grabs her hand as she lets go of his wrist. "Has there been any news?"

He holds his breath, not sure he's really ready for the answer she might give.

"Of Dr. Pierce?"

He nods furiously and in spite of his rising dizziness.

"I'm sorry, Dr. Hunnicutt. None that I know of."

BJ's heart sinks. Not the answer he wanted but one he was expecting. These things always took time. "Any chance you could go check for me?"

Emily shakes her head. "I'm under strict orders from Major Houllihan to clean out your leg and make sure you stay put until she comes back. I assume you've been here long enough to know why I won't be disobeying those orders."

BJ feels defiance bubble up in his throat, even though he knows exactly what she's talking about.

"But perhaps I can shed some light on things, my boy," Father Mulcahy interjects from his chair before BJ can say anything he'll regret. Emily takes advantage of the momentary distraction to return to her work at the foot of his bed as BJ turns towards the priest

"I'm glad to see your awake," Mulcahy says solemnly, all traces of his acclaimed jocularity absent from his voice. "You gave us all quite a scare."

Mulcahy looks as tired as he sounds and BJ is reminded, yet again, that he is not the only one who's been affected by yesterday's events. That this war is not through with taking things from them. Any of them.

But the chaplain feels like he should be off-limits. There should be a shield around him, or a rule protecting him from days like this. There might very well be, but like the shelling of the 4077th yesterday, its been thrown out the window. He's reminded again of oaths, of how little they mean to him now as he glances at the faces of the men and women in the beds around him. Wades through the shattered remains of his faith in humanity. This should never have happened. None of this should ever have happened.

"BJ, are you alright?" Father Mulcahy is leaning forward in his chair and there's a warm hand on his arm. Emily has ceased her plunking.

BJ runs a hand down the side of his face, his days old stubble like sandpaper against his palm. "I don't know." He says without thinking.

"What's happening to me?"

Mulcahy straightens with brows knit like he's trying to figure out which version of that question he should answer. With a glance over at the outsider near the foot of BJ's bed, he opts for the physical.

"You passed out in the Swamp, my friend. Gave Major Houllihan quite the shock, from what I'm told. They also had a terrible time trying to get you over to post-op in the rain." He smiles and BJ thinks the room might actually brighten. Stupid concussion. "But I'm pleased to inform you that besides a moderate concussion, several broken ribs and a bit of internal bleeding they are certain will resolve on its own, you're going to make a full recovery."

"And Hawkeye?" BJ can't help but ask.

Father Mulcahy's face falls again, taking with it all the warmth in the room. BJ holds his breath for the second time since waking up.

"There's no news yet, I'm afraid."

So much for hope. At least it wasn't bad news.

"But what I can tell you," Mulcahy goes on, seeming to sense BJ's unease, "is that reinforcements from the 8063rd have arrived and are helping in the OR so that Colonel Potter and Dr. Winchester can devote their full time and attention to Captain Pierce.

"He's in good hands BJ," the priest finishes with a pat to his arm, "don't trouble your mind about it."

But BJ is going to trouble his mind about it. In fact, until someone carries Hawkeye out of the OR and BJ can see for himself that his friend is still breathing, he's going to agonize over it. He won't rest. He won't ever find peace, no matter how hard the priest beside him tries to give it to him. Not until he knows.

In the moments when he actually lets himself stop and think about it, BJ is pretty sure his friend is still alive. It's that connection between them, that one still sparking with life. If Hawkeye were dead, he would know. It's always kind of been like that between them. Some strange link that lets them know when the other one is hurt or in danger. It's saved them countless times. Lead them to each other through dense jungles, through towns without names. Helped them avoid burnouts and mental breakdowns. It's a bond forged in war and death, in the guts of other men, and BJ imagines he can still feel it inside of him, strung tighter than ever, singing at him every time he goes back to pluck at it and make sure it's still there.

Hawkeye is alive.

He has to be.

The waiting is the hardest part, he decides. Someone comes and whispers something in Emily's ear once she's finished with his leg and she disappears. Even Father Mulcahy leaves him after a while, though he promises to come back and give BJ news of Hawkeye as soon as he has any. BJ's only companions are the other patients in the cots around him. The ones he can't bring himself to look at too closely quite yet. Then there's the unfamiliar doctor on loan from the 8063rd. That poor guy has been by several times already, though BJ can't for the life of him remember his name. He feels bad about that at times. The guy is here as a favor to them, and BJ can't even be bothered to remember his name… He remembers his shoes, though. He threw up all over them the first time the doctor pointed a penlight in his face to check on his pupil responses.

BJ's injuries are quiet for the most part, thanks to the meds. It's his racing thoughts he has to worry about. No drug in the world could alleviate those. He tosses and turns fitfully in his cot, unable to turn it off or escape the gnawing anxiety of the fact that Hawkeye is literally just a flap of canvas away from him, and being worked on by surgeons other than himself.

BJ has no doubt that the Colonel and Winchester will do their best. They are both incredible surgeons, and have proven that to BJ time and time again. They've fought side by side in the trenches for years. He's watched them pull miracles out of thin air in the middle of hell and he knows they will give it their all. But will it be enough? Every time he closes his eyes he can see Hawkeye's terrible injuries. When it comes right down to it, can he trust them to go the extra mile to save Hawkeye like he would have? It makes his stomach roll to think of the answer to that question.

He has visitors from time to time. Radar stops by and offers a stammering apology for things BJ can't recall (and tries not to because trying to remember everything that happened right after the crash still makes his head pound). Klinger comes, and so does Igor from the mess, of all people, but their visits are short and clipped. Everyone had a job to do, and BJ isn't sure which feels worse: his injuries, or the fact that he can't be out there helping his camp. He watches from the sidelines as borrowed doctors from other units treat his patients, fingers itching to do more. He listens to the moans of the men and women in the cots beside him and yearns to go to them. The nurses always do, but it takes too long. He's ineffectual, and that is not a feeling he's used to. Especially not here in his own MASH.

It's Father Mulcahy who shows up the most as the hours pass. He hovers around like he's waiting for something. BJ suspects he's trying to give him every opportunity to unload. Unburden. Confess his sins of the past two days, but he can't. Or won't. BJ is on a mission to atone for his particular sins through a trial by fire, not quiet absolution from the one person in camp who is going to understand why he did what he did and forgive him for it. BJ doesn't deserve that. It's too easy, too tidy. He deserves the pain and the endless, restless hours of waiting for news of Hawkeye. So he stays silent, and even feints sleep when the Father returns for the last time.

There are no clocks in post-op and so BJ marks the passing of time by the light streaming in through the tent windows. It makes squares of light on the plywood floor and he watches as those patches slowly trudge across the boards. Two boards for every hour, or so he figures. It takes one particular patch nearly the entire length of the floor before they bring Hawkeye in.

BJ knows something is up the moment Margaret bursts into post-op and scans the room. Her eyes land on BJ but rather than come over to speak with him, she grabs one of the on-loan doctors and has a harried, whispered conversation with him. She leaves again as the doctor and several orderlies start preparing to move one of the less critical patients out of the ward. BJ watches all of this from his cot, propped up on his elbows and trying to ignore the pain the position creates. He holds his breath as the OR doors open again, but it's just Emily. She heads over in his direction, hands out and motioning for him to stay calm, but BJ ignores her and keeps his eyes glued to the OR door.

Silence descends on the room. Not a single soul seems to breathe as a deeply unconscious Benjamin Franklin Pierce is carried into the post-op tent and placed carefully on the recently vacated cot. He's mostly covered in bandages, but BJ can see enough of him to know he's alive, though barely, it would seem. He's up and on his feet before Emily even has time to react. He stumbles forward, has to grab onto the bar at the end of his bed where his chart hangs to keep from falling, but he doesn't care. Hawkeye is here. He's alive. BJ can touch him now, if he wanted to. And he wants to. Wants to take his hand and feel his heat. Prove to his eyes that what they're seeing and trying to transmit to his concussed brain is actually true.

There's a lot of angry whisper-shouting after that, mostly directed at him. Potter has followed Hawkeye out into post-op and is standing in front of BJ - covered in blood, Hawkeye's blood – and demanding to know where exactly he thinks he's going as Emily does her best to keep him seated on the edge of his cot. Margaret is there, too, and Father Mulcahy. Even the doctor on loan from the 8063rd shows up to try and get him to lie back in bed. But BJ isn't having any of it. He stands his ground (figuratively). Even goes to pull the IV out from the back of his hand before Emily stops him. Works himself into a sweaty, wheezing frenzy before everyone finally realizes nothing they do now, short of sedating him, will keep him from seeing Hawkeye. Margaret appears between the cots with a wheelchair and a glower and then suddenly, BJ is getting his wish. He isn't sure how it happens or what promises he had to make to get his away, but it's actually happening. He can hardly believe it.

"I want you to know that I'm completely against this," Margaret mutters in his ear when she brings his wheelchair to a halt beside Hawk's bed. "He needs his rest. Five minutes, tops."

"Yeah, alright," he says automatically, barely registering the words coming out of his mouth. He swallows, trying to bring moisture back to his throat that has suddenly gone dry. Countless hours of anxiety and worry, the not knowing eating him alive from the inside out to get to this moment.

"How is he?"

"Hunnicutt maybe we should..."

BJ cuts his commanding officer off with a blistering glare. " How is he? "

If the demand has irritated Potter, he doesn't let it show. "As well as can be expected. Vitals are stable at the moment but he still needs more work. Winchester was able to patch up the worst of the internal damage and I did everything I could for his leg. He's holding his own."

BJ glances back at Hawkeye with a nod as the surgeon half of him digests the information. It's not the best news, but it's not a death sentence either.

BJ is struck with the sudden urge to touch his friend, only there doesn't seem to be a place on Hawkeye's body that isn't covered in bloody bandages or drainage tubes. He freezes with hand outstretched as he looks back over at his commanding officer. BJ can feel his eyes fill as he suddenly realizes he doesn't know what to do. All his years of training, of watching families go through very moment, and he doesn't know what to fucking do.

BJ's shoulders slump as Potter squats beside his wheelchair. The sound of popping joints fills the sudden silence. The Colonel lays a hand on BJ's trembling knee.

"He's alive."

BJ squeezes his eyes shut as the trembling continues.

"BJ, look at me."

He can't and warm tears start burning tracks down his face as they fall.

"Son…"

He forces himself to meet Potter's eyes.

"This is not over yet."

"I know," he answers wetly.

"That friend of yours survived a helicopter crash, a land mine explosion and eight hours under the knife today. And as soon as things are cleared up outside he'll be on the first transport out of here to the hospital in Seoul.

"He's going to need you. There's no going AWOL now, Hunnicutt."

Potter captures BJ in an intense gaze. It's demanding and he knows he won't be released from it until he agrees to the terms being laid out. Terms he has a feeling he doesn't even fully realize yet. Still, the answer is a no-brainer.

"Okay."

Potter searches his face for a moment. BJ let's all the masks he's been carrying around since yesterday fall away and Potter apparently finds what he's looking for.

"That settles it then. Now someone better help me up off this floor before I end up a permanent fixture in post-op!"

Potter's request breaks the tension as everyone standing there chuckles and helps their fearless leader up onto his feet. BJ tries to join in on the joviality, but finds he's incapable. The charade requires too much energy to maintain and he's going to need everything he has left to get through the next part of this nightmare, whatever that may be.

It's Margaret of all people who picks up on the fact he's not rebounding along with the rest of them. She takes one look at him and then herds everyone away with a quiet "let's give them a few minutes." BJ smiles his thanks at her when she reminds him one final time to make it brief. They both need their rest.

Both of them.

When did the world become so strange.

Whatever qualms BJ had earlier about touching Hawkeye are gone as he turns back towards his friend and takes one bandaged hand in his own. The sounds of post-op fade away until it's just the two of them left.

"Jesus, Hawk," he almost laughs. "You scared the daylights out of me today."

The hand in his feels impossibly warm and BJ places it gently back on the bed. Those are burns the bandages are covering and BJ's not about to cause his friend anymore pain. He wheels himself a little closer to the bed and rests a hand on Hawkeye's chest instead, taking comfort in the steady ebb and flow of his respirations.

"What in the hell were you thinking, huh?"

Having a one sided conversation with Hawkeye like this is unnerving. BJ keeps glancing up at his friend's face, half expecting him to open his eyes and make a joke about how stupid this entire situation is, but nothing happens. Hawkeye face remains impassive; as still and colorless as a corpse. The slow rise and fall of his chest beneath BJ's hand is the only thing that proves what Potter said earlier is true. He's still alive.

"I know you rigged it so that you would be the one to go to the aid station this time," BJ goes on, undeterred. "You've really got to stop doing that, Hawk. My life isn't worth any more than yours. You have just as much to lose as I do. And if you die, I'll never forgive myself."

BJ pauses as emotion clogs his throat. "You can't leave me here, Hawk. I can't do this goddamn job on my own."

He lets his head fall. "Please don't give up."

His whispered words are met with silence, with the stillness of a comatose friend. Around them post-op goes about its business like nothing in the world has changed, and BJ doesn't know whether to appreciate that fact, or resent it.