Still not mine, still don't own.

I couldn't leave poor BJ in such a desperate state. But things are going to get worse before they get better. I hope I can get him some help! Any medical inaccuracies or other errors are mine.

Trigger warnings from here forward for PTSD, alcohol abuse & panic attacks.

BJ woke up slowly. Sunbeams shone through the small window, which had been cracked to let in the fresh air. White checked curtains drifted in the gentle breeze. He felt warm and safe, content to let his mind coast along peacefully for a few minutes, until consciousness slammed down around him like the walls of a cage.

Oh, God.

He had no idea where he was. BJ sat up on the narrow bed, shifting the faded patchwork quilt to his lap. He was wearing a soft purple T shirt and flannel pajama pants he definitely didn't own. He found fresh gauze covering the mostly-healed road rash on his right palm, and a pressure bandage supporting his bruised rib. BJ had been on some epic benders recently, but this one clearly took the cake.

There has to be a way to sneak out of here. And yet . . . it's so peaceful. Quiet. Almost serene. He sighed contentedly.

But as the cobwebs from dreamland faded, disjointed memories of a desperate road trip came back. BJ felt his palms grow clammy as his heart rate picked up, culminating in the horrible certainty that he knew exactly where he was. He'd set off to find Hawkeye, the last stable anchor in the shifting sands of a turbulent life. And since he was warm and safe and dry, that meant . . .

I'm in Maine? Oh, God.

BJ touched his swollen eye gingerly. He still couldn't see out of it properly; it was a miracle he'd made it to Crabapple Cove in one piece.

He rubbed his hand down the stubble on his face and tried to wake up fully. Prior to crashing here, he hadn't slept for days. It wasn't obvious to him exactly what time it was, but from his fuzzy state of mind and the nagging craving for alcohol, he had to have slept for more than 12 hours.

BJ swore. Great. Now, I've dragged Hawkeye into the middle of my mess. I've got to get out of here.

He wondered where his clothes were. Probably fit for the scrap heap or maybe Hawkeye burned them. Except for my jacket, he hoped. I like that leather jacket.

He could almost hear Peggy nagging him about it, even now.

"Why do you insist on dressing like a criminal?" she'd demanded, standing in their living room next to her Singer sewing machine. Hands on her hips in a bright yellow frock, her tone reminded him that he could do nothing right.

"It's practical," he'd argued. "It's comfortable. I like to wear it when I'm on the bike."

"You and that stupid motorcycle."

BJ had ground his teeth. "It's not stupid," he muttered under his breath.

She had clucked her tongue at him as if he were Erin. "Ever since you got back from Korea, it's like you go out of your way to humiliate me."

"What are you talking about, Peggy? It's not like that."

He remembered the way his hands had felt, clenched and desperate to alleviate the tension.

He had attempted something approaching honesty. "I need it."

"It's been over a year, BJ!" she scoffed, dismissing his fragile effort to communicate. "You're not a teenager anymore. You have a child, responsibilities. We have bills, BJ, in case you've forgotten. You can't just ride off into the sunset whenever something doesn't go your way."

"I don't do that!" he'd yelled.

"You most certainly do!" she'd snapped back. "And I'm the one stuck explaining your absences to our parents, smoothing things over with the hospital." She'd pointed a finger at him as if he were a child. "You need to get your act together."

He'd had no response to that, so he'd sworn in exasperation, a colorful diatribe he'd learned during his stint in the Army. "It's just a jacket, Peg," he'd argued, trying to bring their fight back around to something within his control. "It doesn't mean a damn thing."

"Then get rid of it."

The cold way she'd said it, the icy glare . . . BJ shuddered at that memory now.

But BJ then hadn't had any such qualms. "No," he'd responded, acidly. "I like it."

"You get rid of that jacket . . . or I will."

He'd laughed at her until she brandished a pair of sewing shears. She had lunged for him, scissors in hand, hell-bent to damage the leather . . .

Damn it, he couldn't be certain if his memory was accurate. Peggy had insisted she never did that.

BJ Hunnicutt rocked back and forth on the small bed in Hawkeye Pierce's guest bedroom, trying to remember. The only thing he knew for certain: he'd grabbed his wife by the wrists hard enough to leave bruises.

"You don't want to do that," he'd said, voice eerily calm. The scissors had clanged against the tile floor.

She'd looked up at him with wide eyes. "BJ, you're hurting me."

He had dropped her arms instantly, a look of horror crossing his face. Within minutes, she had scurried upstairs to once again call her parents.

BJ had stood alone in his living room, listening to the sounds of bombs dropping nearby, reliving a North Korean sniper waving a gun at him. He had felt like throwing up. He had needed to find something real, something safe, something familiar to tether him to his own skin. Heart racing, adrenaline thrumming, he had to get out, get to the bike, get on the road. Nothing could touch him as long as he was moving.

As he had sped out the door, he overheard his wife telling her parents that he was a walking disaster, a ticking time bomb.

BJ blinked back tears. That had been months ago. Just one lousy fight among many.

I'm a danger to myself and others.

That thought propelled BJ out of bed. I can't endanger Hawkeye and his father too. I need to get out of here.