Note: All I know about medicine comes from watching shows like MASH, ER, and Grey's Anatomy. Which is to say, I know nothing. So, if I get medical stuff wrong, please forgive me—I know not what I do.

- In Love And War -
Chapter Twenty: Heartbeat

There was darkness again, but not the suffocating, terrifying darkness of before. This was a peaceful darkness, the darkness of closed eyes and the edges of sleep. I felt like I was floating, bodiless, separated from everything, all concerns gone. There was only the darkness, and the peace, and that was all I wanted.

I realized after a bit of floating that I was probably drugged to the gills, as they say. That was just fine by me. Morphine was a godsend. I could distinctly feel the barrier it made between my floating self and my body, and could feel, faintly, the pain that awaited me beyond that barrier. I would avoid crossing the barrier for as long as I could.

I felt when it began to disintegrate, the barrier crumbling slowly and the first tendrils of pain sneaking out to wrap around my floating self. So I did have a body. I became aware of my heartbeat first, a steady thump-thump, comforting. Awareness spread outward from there, nothing spectacularly exciting about the blood flowing outward from my beating heart, until I noticed that I had hands, and that there were fingers not my own wrapped around one of them.

"Beej?"

And when awareness, from the top of my head to the tips of my toes, had returned, the pain came. Not the flood I'd expected, but more of an ache rather than a hurt. My whole body ached. I felt like a giant bruise. Most of the ache was centered around my legs, but it felt like there was a pressure on my chest, making it difficult to breathe, making it harder for my heart to thump-thump, and breathing too deeply sent a shock of pain through my chest. I could feel the bandaging around my left wrist, but that was only a minor ache, compared to the rest.

It felt like there was a man, or maybe a group of men, crouched just behind my eyes, pounding away at the inside of my skull with little hammers. No, not pounding—it was more like a refined little tap, meant more to annoy than to pain. Whatever the purpose was, it was both painful and a pain. The peaceful, floating darkness had faded, but if I could keep my aching eyes closed, I could hold onto the remnants of the darkness, of the not-quite-sleep. The darkness was safe—within the darkness, I didn't have to think, didn't have to remember. I could just lay here in the silence, the peace, the safety—

"Beej, are…are you awake?"

I opened my eyes just a crack, expecting the bright, blinding light again; but it wasn't there, thank God, and I sighed with relief. I could turn my head a little without any pain, and saw him sitting there, next to the bed, and I smiled. "Hawkeye." Even whispering sparked a small twinge of pain in my chest—a cracked or broken rib, if I was any judge.

"How do you feel?"

"What—what happened?"

"What do you remember?"

"I was…there was a wounded soldier. I had to—and then…" I shook my head. It felt like there were cobwebs filling my skull, and my thoughts were slow, sluggish. "It was dark. I—I don't know…"

"A shell exploded near where you were. The, uh…the O-Club fell on you."

The boom, the crash, the darkness…it made as much sense as anything over here. "There…there was a corpsman, and the soldier…are they…?"

"The corpsman is fine, just a few broken bones."

He stopped, seemed reluctant to go on; I prompted, "And the GI?"

He squeezed my fingers gently, his eyes soft, sad, compassionate. "There was just too much damage…he was gone by the time we found him."

I squeezed my eyes shut, sighing painfully. Damnit, damnit, damnit… Hawkeye had been wrong, it didn't get easier over time, each death hurt as bad as the first, each kid I couldn't save was another failure to mark on the tally. How could you ever get used to it—a beating heart one second, the next second still, lifeless, dead. Alive—dead. A thin line separating the two, and there was only so much one person could do, and so often you just couldn't do enough, couldn't pull them back to the right side of the line, had to watch as they slipped away, heartbeat slowing, slowing, stopping, gone, gone forever, I'm sorry, Mr. and Mrs. So-and-so, I did everything I could to save your little baby son, Jr. So-and-so, but I just couldn't do enough, I failed, and I hope you can forgive me because God knows I won't ever forgive me—

Hawkeye's hand rested lightly on my forehead, moved down to brush away the unwanted tears from the corners of my eyes. I leaned into the gentle caress, wishing the brush of his fingers could wipe away all the bad memories, all the pain. I swallowed hard, winced at the pain in my chest, and opened my eyes, turning my head away slightly to break the contact between my face and his fingers. "What're you doing here?" I asked softly, thickly.

He pulled back slightly, confusion plain on his face. "I…when I heard you were missing, I came to…"

I laughed softly, which, in hindsight, was probably not the best thing to do. He busied himself pressing his fingers against my chest in a very professional way while I explained, "I mean why are you here—the 8063? I thought Harbourn—"

"Harbourn's dead." A flat, emotionless statement, and I gaped in surprise. I almost would have expected a small amount of glee from Hawkeye at the announcement that one of his archenemies was no more—"one less idiot to screw up my life" was the sort of attitude I would've expected from him—but he didn't sound like he felt anything; no sadness, but no happiness, either. "He decided to play hero and dashed out to the front line—which was about twenty feet away at the time—and had a bullet for dinner. The present interim C.O. is one Major Schmidt, who has even less of a backbone than Frank Burns. Does that hurt?"

"Yes," I wheezed as I his fingers pressed against a particularly sensitive spot on my chest.

"Sorry. I informed Schmidt that I was your doctor and, as such, am staying here until you're well enough to be moved. Which, if I have it my way, will be by the end of the day, 'cause this place is fucked up."

I laughed again, and clutched weakly at his arm as pain shot through me. "Stop…making me…laugh!" He smiled, a little of the worry drifting out of his face, and gently patted my shoulder. When I'd gotten my breath back, I said, "Give it to me straight, doc—will I ever play the piano again?"

He raised an eyebrow at me. "I don't see why not…"

"Strange—I never could before."

He groaned, burying his face in his hands. "You should be ashamed, BJ Hunnicutt, for even thinking those words!"

"You fell for it," I pointed out, chuckling as softly as possible to keep my chest from exploding in pain. "So what's wrong with me?"

"You've probably noticed by now that you have a few cracked ribs—not too serious, but you should try to stay off them for a while—and your left wrist is sprained. You were, uh, slightly half-buried under the wreckage which resulted in a—your hip was, uh, dislocated, but we, we put it back right and all, and there shouldn't be any lasting damage or anything…and you've got a few minor lacerations, but nothing too bad…" He met my eyes, his face all seriousness. "You were lucky."

"You're telling me?"

He pulled his hands into his lap, twisting them nervously around and around; I reached out and rested my hand over his, stilling their movements, and he looked back up at me. "You could've died."

"But I didn't. I'm feeling quite alive, thanks to you."

He smiled ruefully. "You're thanking the wrong person, fella. I didn't do all that much."

"You…you found me, didn't you?"

"No, I was a few feet to the left. Trapper's the one who dug you out."

I stared up at him. Trapper. Trapper had saved my life. I owed my life, owed every breath, every heartbeat, to Trapper John McIntyre.

Hawkeye seemed not to notice my shock, and went on, "He went back to camp—we decided it was cruel to leave Potter with only Frank as company. But he was worried about you." The last sentence was said hopefully, as if Hawkeye half-doubted Trapper's concern—which was more than I could say for myself, since I doubted every inch of any concern Trapper professed over my well-being.

"I'll have to thank him when we get back," I said, carefully controlling my voice.

Hawkeye's face lit up—he'd probably been worried, still, that there was enmity between Trapper and I. He was no idiot, but he could be fooled into believing something he wanted to believe bad enough. And he wanted very badly to believe that Trapper and I had made amends, that he could be friends with both of us without any trouble; so I smiled back at him, reassuringly, and gently squeezed his hand, and he squeezed back, and I vowed (silently, of course) that I'd do anything—even if it meant being friendly to Trapper—to keep that glowing look on Hawkeye's face.

TBC