M*A*S*H is not mine. I'm just borrowing these characters. I hope they don't mind too much! I'm not sure exactly where I'm heading with this yet - hope I can finish it. Cross-posted at Archive of Our Own.
I don't have a beta-reader at the moment, so if you see any errors, let me know. Any mistakes are mine.
Thanks for reading!
Benjamin Pierce had just begun to prepare a cup of tea after work when there was a knock at the front door. He sighed. Some neighbor kid, probably. The Pierces were well known in the community as soft touches both in and out of the clinic. Their pantry was well-stocked with goods traded for medical care, and they regularly bought cookies and lemonade from enterprising young members of their rural Maine community.
Ben slipped into a warm pair of house shoes before heading into the chill. The goofy slippers had been a gift from his father.
Comfy clothes and self-care, Ben mused. Can't beat 'em.
The young doctor knew everyone had been worried - and by everyone he meant his Dad and anyone within earshot of the older doctor - when he had first come home from Korea. But Dad's tender nurturing had brought him back.
Like a rangy rosebush, Ben thought, once wilted, now majestic, sometimes prickly. He chuckled to himself over such a silly comparison, and wrapped his blue cardigan tighter before opening the door.
"Hello and welcome to the Pierce residence," Ben greeted with a smile. The little bells on the toes of his plaid slippers jingled.
A tall man in dark aviator sunglasses stood on his porch. He wore jeans and a black leather jacket with multiple zippers cinched with a silver buckle. The stranger looked entirely out of place standing by the porch swing on the Pierces' veranda. Ben eyed him suspiciously — from his mud-splattered heavy black biker boots to the dark leather helmet. A battered red motorcycle sat in the driveway, stirring up memories that Ben would rather not touch without the aid of his therapist. Yes, he was doing much better, but no, Korea was not an experience he tried to dwell on.
Ben watched the other man's Adam's apple bob as he tried and failed to formulate a response. Ben felt more sympathetic toward him after that. Witnessing the inability to speak reminded him of the men in his meetings for veterans. Even tough guys needed a little love and support now and then.
"Hey, you okay? Need some help?"
The man pulled off the aviators. One puffy eye was swollen nearly shut, ringed with purple and blue-green bruises. The clinical side of Dr. Pierce estimated the injury took place several days ago. The other eye - grey-blue, bloodshot and haunted - locked onto Ben like a gunsight.
The country doctor stifled a gasp. "BJ?"
A sob, low and throaty, emitted from the biker.
Hawkeye opened his arms and his once-best friend all but fell into them. His much thinner friend — BJ must have lost at least 15 pounds.
"What happened to you? What're you doing here? Why didn't you call? Are you all right?"
BJ shook his head and Hawkeye drew him in tighter.
"I . . . I . . ." BJ grasped at Hawkeye's sweater. "Hawk, I . . . I can't . . ."
"Beej, calm down, okay? We'll figure it out."
The rough-looking man leaned back long enough to give Hawkeye a tremulous smile before glomming on again. Hawkeye could feel his friend's warm tears as they soaked through his clothes.
"Shhhh." Hawkeye held the trembling man in his arms for a few minutes longer before drawing him safely away from the doorway and the prying eyes of his neighbors.
Once inside the cozy little house, he helped BJ out of his jacket, helmet, and boots, and steered his friend toward the overstuffed floral sofa in the living room. BJ, shivering and quaking, clung to him the entire way.
"Hawkeye, Hawkeye, Hawkeye," BJ mumbled as the other man helped him to sit.
The odor of mud, motor oil, stale beer, and sweat assailed Hawkeye's nostrils. How long has it been since he bathed?
S-s-sorry," BJ stuttered out. "So . . . s-s-sorry."
"Hey, none of that." He stroked the man's sweat-soaked hair and BJ closed his eyes, leaning into the touch. "It's okay, Beej. You're safe now."
Hawkeye tried to keep his voice soft and level, in contrast to his racing thoughts. What's he doing here? Is he ill? Did he take something? Why is he dressed like a Marlon Brando wannabe on my porch instead of home in Mill Valley with his perfect picket-fence life and his wife and daughter?
"Does Peg know you're here?" he asked gently.
The keening whine caught him off-guard and raised the hairs on the back of Hawkeye's neck.
"Can't . . . " BJ shook his head. "Doesn't . . . no."
BJ grabbed Hawkeye's sleeve and implored him with his one good eye. Hawkeye couldn't tell if he was saying call because Peg didn't know where he was, or no, please don't call her.
"Beej, I'm not going anywhere. But I have to call Peg." I need to find out what the hell is going on.
BJ wandered into the kitchen after him and sat near Hawkeye with his head resting on the table. He looked like a lost, overgrown five-year-old. Hawkeye could hear him sniffling, and the sound was so unnerving he found his fingers shaking as he began to dial.
He finally reached her on the third ring.
"Hello?"
"Is this Peg Hunnicutt?"
"Who is this?"
"Hawkeye Pierce."
A pause. "He's with you, isn't he? Is he okay?"
Hawkeye looked at the broken, smelly, dejected man collapsed at his kitchen table. No, BJ Hunnicutt was definitely not okay.
"He's here." Hawkeye chose his words carefully. "He seems a bit shaken up . . ."
To his surprise, Peg laughed, although the sound was edged in hysteria. "I'm not surprised. He must have ridden that motorcycle from here to Maine on next to no sleep to have arrived that fast."
"But that's like—" Hawkeye calculated quickly, "Over 3000 miles!"
"Yes," Peg replied.
Hawkeye patted his friend's back. "You big, stupid, lug."
"Missed you," BJ mumbled, eyes closed.
"Peg, I should probably get this guy into the spare bedroom before he falls asleep at my kitchen table. I'll get him watered and fed, and back to you in no time."
There was a protracted silence on the other end of the line. BJ began to twitch and mumble, "No . . . no . . . no."
"That's not necessary," Peg pinched out. "Take your time." Hawkeye could almost taste the bitterness.
BJ clearly heard it too. "Hates me," he muttered, half-delirious. "Hates me so much." He shuddered.
"But I am glad you called," Peg added, a measure of warmth returning to her voice. "I'll let Erin know her father's safe."
"Er-r-r-rin," BJ whimpered, and Hawkeye squeezed his shoulder.
"All right, Peg. Good night."
"Good-bye."
A fat tear rolled down Hawkeye's cheek as he considered his friend. BJ, as Hawkeye had predicted, was now completely sacked out at the kitchen table, drooling on the white and red checkerboard tablecloth. Even asleep, he continued to whimper in a rhythmic way. It made Hawkeye worry about internal injuries.
What happened to him? He said he was fine in his letters. Hawkeye washed a hand down his face. Okay. First things first. Triage. Get BJ cleaned up and tend to his eye. Check him over for other injuries, try to get him to drink and eat something, let him rest. Tomorrow can wait.