Hawkeye's POV again—yay!
- In Love And War -
Chapter Twenty-Two: War Games
I heard the jeep crunch through the fresh layer of ice and snow in the compound, and stuck my head out the door as the familiar figure climbed down from the jeep and stretched. "Sidney!" I called, and he turned to face me, smiling; I went out to shake his hand and grab his bags from the back of the jeep. "You'll have to bunk with us," I said apologetically. "A certain vertically-impaired, myopic, pre-pubescent corporal traded our VIP tent for a gallon of chocolate syrup."
Sidney laughed good-naturedly. "That's quite all right. I like the Swamp. I find it much more interesting to try to psychoanalyze you and Trapper than to try to psychoanalyze myself."
"Well, you'll have another brain to pick at now," I informed him, trying to open the door with my elbows. He took pity on me and reached around to do it himself. "Major Sidney Freedman, meet Captain BJ Hunnicutt, our local paperweight. Beej, this is the shrink."
"Strange, he looks normal-sized," BJ said, waving to the major. He was lying on his bunk, his left leg propped up on a pile of pillows while he read his newest medical journal. "I'd get up to shake your hand, but then I'd have to listen to Mother Hawkeye's scolding."
"Then I'll spare you," Sidney said with a smile, going over to shake BJ's hand. "If you don't mind my asking, Captain, what happened to you?"
"First of all, it's BJ—"
"Which stands for whatever you want it to," I interrupted in a disenchanted monotone. No matter how much I pestered him, he always said the B and the J didn't stand for anything—just a B and a J juxtaposed. I didn't believe him for a second.
He smiled at me briefly, then continued to Sidney, "—and I got caught in the middle of a disagreement between a building and a shell." Sidney winced sympathetically. "I don't want to offend you, Major—"
"Please, call me Sidney. And I'm very hard to offend."
"Well, Sidney, I hope you're not using this Poker Night as a cover to come psychoanalyze me. 'Cause I'm perfectly fine."
Sidney glanced at me over BJ's head; I shrugged and made a face. Aside from his "episode" after the chopper ride, he'd been doing fine. Sidney smiled that reassuring smile of his and said, "I don't doubt that, BJ. To tell you the truth, I wasn't even aware you were here. I have no intention of psychoanalyzing you or anyone else here—this is my vacation."
"You come here for vacation?" BJ asked with a skeptical laugh.
"Makes you think he's the one who needs to see a psychiatrist, doesn't it?" I said, pouring a round of martinis and passing them out.
Smiling, Sidney said innocently, "I like it here. This kind of insanity is refreshing."
Chuckling, I said, "Sidney, that's your bunk over there—we had to move the still to make room, I'll have you know. It had to lose ten pounds in order to squeeze itself into this corner, and it's informed me that it hates you."
"Give it my sincerest apologies—I would hate to offend such a good friend." He lifted his suitcase onto his cot, squeezed into the space between Trapper's bunk and mine, and then paused. "One question—why is there underwear on the pillow?"
Lifting his journal again, BJ said casually, "We were out of mints."
"I see. Remind me to stay at a different hotel next time I'm in town."
The door flew open and Trapper blew into the room, inflicting what looked like a painful hug upon poor Sidney. "I was just collecting all my debts," he said cheerfully, fanning out a nice wad of cash.
"Oh, good," I said. "I was just about to do the same. Pay up, Trap."
"Huh? No way, Joe—I paid you back weeks ago!"
"You—are you kidding me? You gave me an 'I owe you' to go with the first one you gave me five months ago!"
"Nuh-uh, I paid you back on payday. I gave you all my money!"
"And then you borrowed it right back to play poker that night—and lost it all!"
"To you!"
"Uh, sirs?" Radar said from beyond the door, and shuffled quickly inside, into the freezing cold of the Swamp as opposed to the sub-zero of the outside. "Colonel Potter wants to know when the big game's starting, so he can, uh, know when to come for the, you know…the big game."
"Weeeeell…" I said, looking around the room. "One, two, three, four here, plus you makes five—how many chairs do we have, Trap?"
"Nine."
"Okay, five out of nine accounted for means four left—"
"He's a real math whiz," BJ said to Sidney.
"Potter—one. Father Mulcahy—two. Klinger—what comes after two?"
"Four," Trapper provided.
"Right, and Margaret makes fifteen. Yup, all accounted for! Tell Potter to come on over, and round everyone else up on the way."
"Yessir!" Radar said cheerfully, with a salute so energetic it nearly knocked his glasses off. He scurried back outside, and Trapper, Sidney, and I set about the task of clearing an area large enough for nine people to play poker. Once we'd gotten the table and chairs set up, I went over to help half-drag BJ off his cot and into the most comfortable chair we'd been able to find. He had to sit turned slightly to the side, so that his left leg could be propped up on a stool out of the way. His position meant that whoever sat to his left would have to sit between his legs, so I turned martyr, sacrificing myself in order to spare someone else the awkwardness of having to sit in such a position—I certainly didn't feel awkward sitting there, but I noticed a certain redness to BJ's face that made me smile. Trapper sat on my other side, and Sidney seated himself on the other side of the table—no doubt, so he could easily observe the three most interesting things in the camp. The others arrived shortly after, and with an extravagant shuffle, I proclaimed, "Let the games begin!"
AN: I feel somewhat cruel, switching POVs on you so often, but I thought it would be fun to do this part from Sydney's POV. So…that's what I'm doing. Thus:Sidney
The game started off well, though the general atmosphere in the tent tonight was slightly different than it usually was, but I seemed to be the only one who could sense that—there was an underlying air of hostility, centered on Captains McIntyre and Hunnicutt. They were frequently the last two players in a given hand, and got involved in wild betting wars. I sensed a power struggle—though, admittedly, anyone with eyes could see that there was at least a little enmity between the two. They managed to hide it fairly well, at least for the beginning of the night. They were as light-hearted and cheerful as everyone else, excepting their almost outrageous one-upsmanship. Trapper, for once, seemed to be having a great deal of luck.
Grinning, he laid his cards out on the table, prompting Hawkeye to swear and throw his full house into Trapper's face. "Four two's!" Trapper announced proudly.
"How four-two-itous," BJ mumbled, and the table groaned. "Hey, you know what they say: 'A good pun is its own reword'." Another collective groan, louder this time, and BJ giggled gleefully. "What can I say, I'm an incorrigible punster—just don't incorrige me." Hawkeye threw the deck of cards at him. "Oh, come on, it's jest for pun!" A sudden desire for alcohol was experienced by all, and Hawkeye threatened to poke BJ's injured leg.
If there was enmity between Trapper and BJ, the opposite was true for Hawkeye and the new captain. If this had been my first visit to the 4077th, I might have guessed that BJ had been there just as long as the others; he fit seamlessly into the group, and fit particularly well with Hawkeye—an intellectual equal, a calmer, more tempered version of Hawkeye himself, the 'yin' to Hawkeye's 'yang'. The only hitch was Trapper…there was something, something, between BJ and Trapper, and I was beginning to guess what it was.
Margaret Houlihan was a new addition, too, to Poker Night, there by Hawkeye's invitation. The others seemed uncertain about her presence, slightly reserved, but it looked as though an unlikely friendship had sprung up between the regular-army major and the anything-but-regular captain. Frank Burns entered the tent at one point and started whimpering when he saw Margaret, who pointedly ignored him. That's new, I thought with mild interest, watching as Burns desperately tried to subtly get Margaret's attention, even going so far as to pour himself a martini from the still and loudly express his disgust with it. When that failed, he slunk back to his cot and dug out his gun.
"Put that away, Frank!" Hawkeye snapped, glaring.
Margaret's eyes flickered towards the major for only a fraction of a second, but Frank had been watching for that. He wasn't about to stop anything that got the attention of his (former, I was assuming) lover.
BJ, still seeming to be in a good mood, said lightly, "Gun powder and alcohol don't mix, Frank. You can't shoot it, and it tastes awful."
Hawkeye turned to glare at his fellow captain. "I'm surprised your tongue hasn't turned black and fallen out yet."
"You're just jealous that I'm wittier than you are," BJ said, tossing his hair.
They continued their bantering and I smiled, reminded of why I'd come here. Strange, that you had to get closer to the war to get away from the war.
After it became apparent that Margaret was no longer interested in his gun, Frank crept back outside, prompting Hawkeye to announce, "Everyone leaves the world a little better—some by leaving."
"Some people cause happiness wherever they go," BJ agreed, "others whenever they go."
Margaret made a face. "You really shouldn't be so hard on him. He's not all bad—he does have…some value…"
"A person's true value depends entirely on what they are compared with," Hawkeye pointed out, and Margaret tried to hide a small smile. "Colonel, it's four dollars to you."
Potter, who looked half-asleep, shook himself and exclaimed, "Four dollars! That's— It's— Oh, hell, it's three in the morning, I don't care anymore."
Hawkeye, grinning, said, "It's not three yet, Colonel, you have to care for eight more minutes."
Glancing at his watch, BJ corrected tiredly, "Nine."
"Ten," Hawkeye countered.
"Eleven," I jumped in willingly.
"What?" BJ demanded, looking blankly from Hawkeye to me.
Innocently, Hawkeye said, "I thought we were betting."
If the night had ever been going uphill, it went downhill after that.
We were all tired, and most of us had had more alcohol than was adviseable; whenever someone suggested ending the game for the night, though, Trapper or BJ was quick to argue against it—they were still very much involved in their private battle. I'd lost all my money by then, and had no urge to indebt myself to any of them, so I leaned back to watch everything play out. Father Mulcahy left with his winnings before they became his losings, and Radar, yawning wide enough I was afraid he'd swallow his money, dragged himself and a sleepy Potter off to bed. Margaret, claiming to be disgusted by such competitiveness, left after handing out a few IOU's. Klinger skipped off to dress for his shift as guard—"Only a crazy person would wear this on guard duty! My handbag would clash with my rifle!"—and all of Hawkeye's luck seemed to have shifted to Trapper.
"Oh, c'mon!" Trapper shouted when Hawkeye started to crawl under his blankets. "You gotta keep playing! It's still early!"
"Dawn is nature's way of telling you to go to bed!" Hawkeye's muffled voice came from under his pillow.
Trapper looked to me, a chummy smile spreading across his face. "Sidney…"
"No thank you," I said, returning the smile.
"Sounds like it's just me and thee," BJ said, his eyebrows raised at Trapper.
"You can't play poker with only two people!"
A small, humorless smile curved BJ's lips as he idly shuffled the deck. "Then why don't we play a different game?"
"Whaddya have in mind?" Trapper asked suspiciously.
"War. All or nothing."
They stared at each other for a very long time, something unspoken passing between them. Quite obviously, there was even more going on than was apparent at first glance.
I was intrigued. I was also quite sleepy, but I wasn't about to go to bed and miss something here.
"Deal," Trapper ordered.
As they started to play, I reminded myself that I was on vacation and as such, was not a psychiatrist. I was nothing more than Major Sidney Freedman, weary visitor. But these two were practically begging to be analyzed, to be picked apart piece by piece and carefully examined. The false camaraderie, the veiled insults, the general hostility—it was any psychiatrist's dream. I leaned forward, elbow on table and chin in hand, and asked, "Care to tell me what's wrong, boys?"
They both looked at me sharply, and then pasted identical forced grins on their faces. "Wrong?" Trapper repeated incredulously. "There's nothing wrong, is there, BJ?"
"Nothing at all. What would make you think that, Major?"
I leaned back again, clasping my hands over my stomach and smiling faintly. "Oh, nothing, nothing. I was just reminded of something that happened a long time ago—Billy Howard stole my apple in first grade, and we beat each other up."
"That's a lovely story, Sid," Trapper said sardonically, tapping his stack of cards against the table. "But this ain't first grade, and I don't see any apples."
"No? I do. Right there." I pointed at Hawkeye's bunk, where we could hear his soft snoring. "Which one of you stole it?"
They gaped at me, glanced at each other and at Hawkeye, and then BJ said pristinely, "I don't know what you're talking about."
With a chuckle, I decided not to press the matter and said, "Okay, but I'll warn you—you two are making complete asses of yourselves, and it's only a matter of time until he notices."
"That won't be a problem," Trapper said calmly, and I noticed that BJ's face turned a few shades whiter, and that his carefree mood all but evaporated.
Oh, Sigmund, if only you were here now…They waged their war, their piles of cards shrinking and growing in tides, and it seemed as though the game would never end—that they would remain here forever, the two of them, locked in mortal combat, fighting for a prize far greater than money (or so I had to believe). Though it was freezing cold in the tent, I could see sweat beading on BJ's brow, but I began to suspect that wasn't due to the intensity of the game—he ground his teeth together, his eyes narrowing occasionally to fight off a wince, his left hand clutched against the thigh of his wounded leg. He was in pain—I'd had enough med school to see that it was a great deal of pain.
I reached out to lightly touch his shoulder, and said softly, "BJ, should you be taking some painkillers?"
Trapper looked up sharply. "You haven't taken your meds?"
"I don't need them," BJ snapped. "I'm fine. We need to finish this game, then I'll take 'em."
"Hunnicutt, you have to—"
"All I have to do is finish this game!" he shouted, his voice cracking on the last word, his fingers closing convulsively on the edge of the table.
"Beej—" None of us had heard Hawkeye get up, but he was there suddenly, crouched next to BJ, fingers gently probing the injured man's leg. "If you'll recall, I'm your doctor, which means I know what's best for you. I generously let you have some say in your treatment, but I'm going to have to ask you to stop helping me before you make things worse. Bed. Now." He grabbed BJ's arm, but the patient pushed his doctor away.
"You don't understand!" BJ shouted, a note of desperation in his voice. Trapper slipped out of the tent, silently. "I need to finish this game, it's almost over, I just need to finish it and then I'll swallow any pills you want me to. Please—" He clutched at Hawkeye's arm, his face a hectic red; something passed between the two of them, from blue eyes to blue eyes, something I couldn't even begin to comprehend. Then Trapper sidled back into the tent, one hand held casually behind his back; neither BJ nor Hawkeye seemed to notice him until he was crouched behind BJ's chair and had already inserted the needle through the layers of BJ's clothing into his rear end. BJ struggled briefly until the sedative took effect, and then the three of us managed to get him tucked into his bunk.
"What happened?" Hawkeye demanded of Trapper.
"Nothing!" Trapper exclaimed defensively. "We just—we were playing all or nothing, that's all."
"Then I guess you won," Hawkeye growled, climbing back into his own bed.
Trapper grumbled under his breath and grabbed his money off the table, leaving the pile of BJ's winnings untouched. "Trapper?" I questioned softly, and pointed when he turned to face me.
He met my eyes, steady, unflinching. "It wasn't about the money."
I returned the stare. "I know."
He snorted quietly, and then he, too, crawled into his bunk. There was nothing for me to do now but join the Swamprats in sleep.