Updates are going to be a little slower in coming (as you may have noticed)—school, and all the time-consuming work that comes with it. But don't worry, I'm still working on this! There will be seven or eight more chapters (depnding on whether or not I decide to cut one), and what little free time I have now is devoted to FINISHING this. Yay! (I will point out that reviews serve as a wonderful incentive to get me writing faster…)

Disclaimer: I don't own the lyrics to any of the songs; don't know who does, but it's not me.

Note: What you see before you is an edited version of this chapter, to keep the story at a T rating; if there are those of you out there who, like me, tend to like something more explicit, I'd be happy enough to email you the unedited version. You can reach me at kungfublu2 (at) centurytel (dot) net. This is a recording.

- In Love And War -
Chapter Thirty: Christmas

The hot chocolate was more like a solid than a liquid, but unlike most army foodstuffs, it had taste. Even more than that, it tasted good. Chewing idly on it, one was reminded of those cold winter days long ago, in a different world far away, sitting in front of a crackling fire, next to a brightly-lit Christmas tree, smiling as Mom handed you a steaming mug of very similar hot chocolate and Dad read "The Night Before Christmas." It was enough to remind one just how long ago and far away those remembrances were, how different this place was from that warm, cozy place of memory. Here, snow and cold wind blew in through the tent, forcing everyone (clad in as many layers of clothing as we could get our collective hands on (…folks dressed up like Eskimos…)) to huddle close together; nary a crackling fire in sight, and certainly no mothers and fathers to read stories and sing carols with. The only redeeming qualities of this cold, miserable Christmas in this cold, miserable place were (as far as I was concerned) the hot chocolate, and the company. The comforting warmth of BJ at one side and Trapper at the other (…We three kings…), shoulders pressed to mine as we each nibbled at our hot chocolate, the glow of good friends enough to drive away most of the lingering chill. (…Faithful friends who are dear to us Gather near to us once more…)

I was, without a doubt, the most festive person there (excluding Potter Clause), wearing what I'd asked Dad to send me: a little plastic headband supporting a big plastic star that flashed with different colors. It seemed to make everyone giggle when they looked at me—the same effect it'd had when I'd had to wear it for the fifth grade Christmas play, though now I thrived on the happy giggling (…Silver bells, silver bells…) instead of being embarrassed by it. If I could add a little extra Christmas cheer by playing the fool, why not do it (since I never really needed a special occasion to play the fool anyway)?

Trapper was reminiscing about Christmases past, and his longing to be home with his family (…I'll have a blue Christmas without you, I'll be so blue thinking about you…); BJ lamented missing his daughter's first Christmas (…The children were nestled all snug in their beds, While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads…), and that mention of his other life dampened my spirits significantly. The hot chocolate turned to mud in my mouth, and I set my mug aside, no longer comforted by the familiar taste. I mumbled something about having to go somewhere to do something and levered myself up from the bench, shouldering my way through the whole of the unit packed into the mess tent, swinging the door open to shouted protests and letting it slam shut, abruptly cutting off the cries of displeasure and the softer sounds of general merriment, laughter and a few poorly-sung verses of carols. It was quiet here, outside, the only sound that of fat snowflakes joining their predecessors on the white carpet. (Let It Snow! Let It Snow! Let It Snow!)

I tilted my head back, sticking out my tongue to catch the snowflakes; lifted up my arms and turned in a slow circle, my memory latching on to the smells of hot chocolate and popcorn and cookies—the smells of childhood Christmases—and let myself be pulled away, far away from this cold, miserable place, to a small, cozy house in Crabapple Cove, with a warm fireplace and a towering tree, stockings and presents; (…I'm dreaming of a white Christmas Just like the ones I used to know…) and outside, no measly dusting of snow, but blankets of it, a young boy sinking into it up to his knees, turning in a circle and catching snowflakes on his tongue, falling back into the waiting arms of white, arms and legs moving in synchronization as the snow continued to fall… (…I'll be home for Christmas, If only in my dreams…)

"Hawkeye?"

I looked up, blinking snow from my eyelashes, and realized that I'd joined my young memory-self in making snow angels. Sat up and brushed snow off the back of my head, squinted up at the person standing in front of me. Backlighting made it impossible to see any distinct features, creating instead a haloed Jesus, come to save me.

"Why'd you leave?" Jesus asked with BJ's voice.

I grabbed onto the nearest of his crutches, using it to pull myself up and bring myself as close to eye-to-eye as I'd ever get with a towering giant like him. My star cast red light briefly over his face, and then threw it back into shadow; then a white light, and finally green, making him squint with each flash of brightness. "It was getting too loud in there," I lied.

"It was what I said about Erin, wasn't it?" He shifted, turning slightly and bringing his face into the lamplight, his features thrown into sharp releif, every angle, every plane, every curve of his face highlighted and clearly visible, the shape of the face I'd gotten to know very well the past few weeks—traced it with fingers and mouth, memorizing the exact shape, imprinting every tiny unique imperfection inside my brain, so I could close my eyes at night and summon his face up as clearly as if he were laying there next to me—which would have been lovely, and was, in fact, an occurrence my body was beginning to scream for, his injuries or no. But all Doctor Pierce would allow were vigorous bouts of face-sucking and the occasional light grope, much to the annoyance of Don Juan Pierce.

I was in the middle of considering what a good combination BJ and hot chocolate would be when he reached out to lightly shake my shoulder, pulling me sharply back to the present and what was bound to be another of those deep, honest, and heart-felt discussions that seemed to plague us. I didn't want that. What I wanted was to push him up against the nearest solid surface and ravage him. But in lieu of being able to do that, I supposed that talking wasn't too bad.

I looked meaningfully at the mess tent, only a few feet away, and we headed towards the privacy of the Swamp. It was almost as cold in there as it was outside, and I built up the fire in the stove while BJ hobbled over to his cot and got himself situated comfortably. He was starting to put a little weight on the leg now, and it was still healing fine, which boded well for our overeager libidos. I sat down in the chair next to his bunk, half-turned so I was facing him; before he could talk, I said, "Listen, Beej—I understand. Erin's your daughter. You love her, you miss her. I understand that. I just…don't like to be reminded that there's a part of you that's not…mine." And I wasn't lying. It would be impossible to ask him to stop loving Erin just because he'd already agreed to give her up; I wouldn't ask him to do that, and he wouldn't be able to even if I did. But that led directly into something I'd been thinking about for quite a while—something I didn't want to say, didn't want to make him think about, because I was afraid he'd change his mind: "I—I don't want you to regret this, Beej. If you—if you really do come with me, you'll be leaving Erin behind…you won't get to see her as much as you would if you…if you didn't come… And I don't want to take that away from you, I know how much you love her—"

He reached out to grab my hand—he seemed endlessly fascinated by my hands, content to toy with them when I wouldn't let him toy with other parts of my body, the rough pads of his fingers running over my palm and the back of my hand, gently massaging muscles stiff from a day of surgery. He just held the hand now, wanting nothing more than to have something with which to hold my attention.

I could see his eyes very clearly in the relative darkness of the tent (we hadn't bothered turning any lights on, so my flashing star was about the only thing lighting the place up), and he was looking at me very intently. "Yes," he finally said, "I love Erin. And yes, I'll miss her. I don't want to lose her, but…I don't want to lose you a lot more." He smiled, and I returned it with relief, shifting a little closer and letting him pull my other hand into his lap. "And I'm sure I'll be able to work something out—after all, California's only a plane ride away from Maine."

"You've really got a way with words sometimes, you know?"

"I acted in college."

"Oh, so that was all acting?" I said in feigned indignation.

"Yup." Grinning, he grabbed the back of my head and pulled me closer, bringing our mouths together. "This is all acting, too," he informed me, voice slightly skewed by the fact that I'd sucked his lower lip into my mouth.

"You're a very good actor."

And then there was no more talking. I separated from him briefly to get up and latch the door shut; he raised his eyebrows as I came back, and I could practically see the question hovering in the air above his head: What would we be doing that required the locking of the door? Well, Christmas was a time of celebration, the season of giving; and since I hadn't had the opportunity to buy BJ a Christmas present, I had to give him something…

He made a soft, surprised noise as I swung my leg over him and lowered myself down, straddling his hips and sliding my hands slowly up his chest. He closed his eyes, his breathing becoming ragged as I deliberately pressed the lower half of my body against his. I slid one hand up to the back of his neck, lifting his head and bringing his lips up to mine, using all my considerable kissing skill and leaving him gasping for breath when I finally moved my mouth down to his chin, and then to his Adam's apple, which bobbed crazily beneath my lips and tongue. His hands had moved to my shoulders, gripping tightly as I moved my mouth lower still, tugging his scarf out of his jacket to expose more of his neck, yanking off my gloves and sliding my hands up under his layers of clothing, brushing my fingertips against the warm skin of his stomach. He gasped, arching slightly against me, and I smiled, leaning up to whisper in his ear, "You have to lay very still, Beej. We wouldn't want to do any damage to your hip, would we?"

He shook his head sharply, eyes closed, breath hissing out through his teeth as I rested my cold hands against his stomach. I pressed my mouth back against his, exploring the inside with my tongue as I slid my hands slowly up his stomach and towards his chest, his own hands opening and closing convulsively on my shoulders.

I pulled my hands out from under his jacket, smiling as he moaned softly with the loss of contact, and slid down his body. Felt him stiffen with surprise as I rested my hands over the very apparent bulge in his olive-green pants.

"Hawkeye," he gasped.

"Yo," I said brightly, undoing the button and then the zipper to reveal tented khaki boxers.

He reached down and grabbed my wrist tightly, and I looked up to meet his eyes, smiling mischievously. He was breathing heavily, his eyes slightly wild. "What—what're…doing…?"

"It's Christmas," I pointed out, flicking the star on top of my head. "Consider this my Christmas present to you." That said, I started working his pants down around his hips, far enough that I could tug the waistband of his boxers down too. He was holding onto the sides of the bunk for dear life, his eyes squeezed shut and his breath rattling unsteadily. Ah, lust, that most primal of human impulses, that emotion that had driven greater men than I (impossible as that seemed) to madness, that insatiable urge to please and be pleased.

I held onto his hips—careful with the still-tender left one—and slowly lowered my head.

(Camera shifts to focus on the pleasantly-glowing fire in the stove—AKA, this is the part I had to edit out. Suffice it to say that they do certain things indescribable in the equivalent of a PG-13 movie. After a certain amount of time, the camera shifts back.)

A soft, pleased sigh sounded somewhere above me and I smiled, pulling myself up and grabbing the blanket at the foot of the bed, squeezing next to him on the narrow army cot and wrapping the blanket around us. He pulled me closer, pressing his face against my shoulder and mumbling something unintelligible. I ran my fingers idly through his hair, smiling as he curled himself against my side, the very image of a man sated and utterly content. "Merry Christmas, Beej," I whispered.

"…love you…"

(…To face unafraid The plans that we've made Walking in a winter wonderland…)