Secret World

(Author's Note: All of the songs quoted are contemporary; I hope this anachronism doesn't pull you out of the story. Also, there are small spoilers here for the episode "Stars and Stripes.")

B.J. sat on his and Peg's bed as the late-morning sunlight blazed through the window. His suitcase sat at his feet, waiting to be unpacked. He kept turning the envelope over and over in his hands. His name, just B.J., without the Hunnicutt, was written across it in Hawkeye's scrawl. He couldn't seem to bring himself to open it. The house was quiet; Peg and Erin would be gone for hours, he had the place all to himself. Now was the time, he knew. Privacy, peace, space, solitude. Yeah, I really ought to open this now...

But instead, he looked out the bedroom window as his thoughts drifted back to Uijongbu, South Korea.

What would happen if we kissed
Would your tongue slip past my lips
Would you run away, would you stay
Or would I melt into you?
—Meredith Brooks, "What Would Happen"

They walked into the Swamp following 16 hours of surgery, tired, bloody, and numb. Hawkeye went directly to the still and poured two glasses. "I'm too tired to sleep, too sleepy to think, too sore to move. Too weak to speak and too fried to cry. Am I even making any sense?"

"Hawkeye, the day you start making sense is the day I start to worry about you." B.J. accepted his glass and sipped. "But at least you're rhyming."

"Ah well, then. That's all that matters."

"Ten leg wounds, seven shoulder wounds, eleven bowel resections…" B.J. trailed off, and Hawkeye didn't miss a beat.

"And a partridge in a pear tree," he sang.

"Here's to the end of another day in hell," B.J. held up his glass. Hawk saluted with his own. The dreadful homemade swill went down quickly and easily.

"I'm going to need much more than that," Hawkeye said with a smack of his lips.

"Oh Lord, yes," B.J. said. He and Hawk reached for the still at the same time, their hands accidentally bumped, and crazily, inexplicably, some kind of indefinable pull took over. As though they were magnetized, their bodies came together and their mouths met in an unplanned, unexpected, uninhibited kiss. The world suddenly stopped. B.J. shut his eyes and tried not to think. Easier said than done. His head was a jumbled mess... Peg... Erin... this isn't right… Hawkeye... damn, who would have imagined this would feel so good?

Hawkeye was the first to pull back, but he moved gently, and B.J. didn't take offense. "Wow," Hawk whispered, a bewildered look on his face, "sorry. I think."

"It's OK," B.J. whispered back. "That was mutual."

They were still standing much too close to each other. Hawkeye's hand was lightly holding B.J.'s wrist and his eyes were bright. They began to lean toward each other again, slowly, but then the Swamp door opened and in huffed Frank Burns, in a tizzy over something. "Potter hasn't heard the last of this!" he grumbled, as though Hawkeye and B.J. should know exactly what he was prattling on about.

That, of course, stopped them. Hawk withdrew his touch, and B.J. took one giant step backward, away from the other man, erasing any signs of impropriety. He looked at Hawkeye, who gave an unreadable look back, and they retreated to their respective bunks. Somehow Hawkeye managed to engage Frank in conversation and even get off some zingers at the major's expense, but B.J. was too lost in thought to play along. That was mutual, and where the hell did it come from?

Scared, confused, in denial, or simply trying to behave, they didn't broach the subject for weeks. But when they finally did, there wasn't much talking involved.

It's been so long since I've touched
So long since I wanted
Then you made me laugh
And my heart opened.
—Melissa Etheridge, "Please Forgive Me"

B.J. would always find it ironic and surreal that the most romantic night of his entire life took place in the supply room of an Army compound in Korea. Location, obviously, had nothing to do with it.

The previous night had been the first time he and Hawkeye made love. It'd been amazing, no question. But B.J. had been nervous and self-conscious, and even though Hawkeye was sweet, patient, and understanding, it took a long time for B.J. to feel comfortable, to feel free to express his love. Now, with that slightly awkward first time behind them, his nerves were diminished.

Stretched out next to each other, sipping wine, they spent the first hour simply talking. Talking. Hawkeye, using a restraint that B.J. would have never imagined possible, barely touched him. B.J. would think back on it later with absolute wonder. How they talked about a patient in post-op, or some freakishly intuitive thing Radar had said, or even things they'd done as kids…how Hawkeye would reach out and punctuate a sentence with a light touch, but then remove his hand, apparently wanting to maintain the chaste atmosphere for as long as possible. How he would feel a pleasant little pang in his belly whenever Hawkeye smiled, like some schoolgirl with a crush. How he would try to stay focused on the conversation but couldn't stop his eyes from wandering over Hawk's body appreciatively, thinking about strong arms and a cute ass and just a touch of hair on his lean chest. B.J. was keenly aware of the warmth and anticipation building as the evening melted away. It was delicious. The foreplay before the foreplay.

Oh, but eventually there was foreplay. The wine forgotten, the touching embargo lifted, Hawkeye began to run his fingers over B.J.'s arm. Just for starters. Lips settled ever-so-lightly on B.J.'s neck, tickling at his pulse point. The nuzzling led to kissing led to tongues connecting and hands exploring more boldly. B.J. shifted to bring Hawkeye on top of him, trembling with growing desire. Blindly, they started to undress one another.

While their first time had been a little tentative, even a little scary from B.J.'s perspective, their second night was pure magic. Every movement felt right, every touch was exquisite, every sigh echoed their mutual pleasure. The war went away, the world went away, and they focused only on each other.

Afterward, they lay entangled on the blanket, their breathing slowing, fingers gently traveling along warm, moist skin. They were quiet for a while, savoring, as though they'd just had a drink of the best liquor in the world and they wanted the taste to linger on their tongues as long as possible.

Then Hawkeye said, softly, "That sound you hear is my heart beating. I was starting to think it might have forgotten how."

B.J. had no idea how to respond to that. Tears welled in his eyes, and he reached out to cup the side of Hawkeye's face and bring their mouths together for a kiss. There would be countless other trysts with Hawkeye, many of them indescribably beautiful, some of them wild and feverish and hot, but he would always remember this as the most amazing night he ever had.

I want you naked
I want you wild
I want the stars to know they win.
—REM, "You're in the Air"

Hawkeye came into the supply room with a sheepish look on his face. "I'm sorry. I know you've been waiting a while. Here, I brought you a beer. Forgive me?" He handed the bottle to B.J.

"Hey, no big deal. I had time to do an inventory while I waited," he said, taking a drink.

Hawk looked at him, "Are you serious?"

B.J. laughed. "Of course not. I did, however, get a nice catnap. I won't complain about that. So where were you? Two-timing me with some other surgeon?"

"Margaret was drowning her sorrows in the O Club and needed some moral support. She broke it off with Scully."

"Oh damn. That's too bad."

"Yeah, she was pretty upset. Said something about her heart having a revolving door. But you know her, she's philosophical about it already. She said her next Mr. Right will have to meet her, quote, minimum standard requirements, unquote."

"Which are?"

"Let's see, how did it go?" Hawkeye settled in next to B.J. on the blanket and took a swig of his own beer. "Twenty percent her father, ten percent Scully… oh, she gave yours truly ten percent, thank you very much. Three percent Frank Burns and one percent Donald."

"Wow, that's pretty specific," laughed B.J.

"The woman knows what she wants. You gotta give her that."

B.J. reached over and took the beer bottle out of Hawkeye's hand, then leaned in for the kiss he'd been dying for since the moment Hawk had entered the room. "Mmmm. So do I." He ran his thumb along Hawkeye's jawline. "And you were worth the wait."

Hawk responded with another kiss, deep and warm and lusty. "We have all night," he purred.

B.J. smiled at him. "So tell me," he teased, his fingers playing at the back of Hawkeye's neck, getting happily lost in silky black hair, "who would be the perfect mate for you?"

"Well, certainly Frank would get more than three percent on my scale," Hawkeye said with a straight face.

"Of course he would. Goes without saying. And I'm going to guess, oh, about ten percent Klinger, right?" B.J. asked, the banter coming quickly now, effortlessly.

"Yeah, but only for his fashion sense." They both laughed, and Hawkeye began to plant small, light kisses on B.J.'s neck. His left hand made its way down to Beej's pants and unzipped the fly.

B.J., moaning and writhing under Hawk's touch, suddenly lost interest in the discussion part of this rendezvous. He grabbed the back of Hawkeye's head and pulled him in for a serious, open-mouthed, tongue-dueling, heart-stopping kiss. As they parted, he pulled off Hawkeye's shirt and reached for his pants. Hawkeye helped the process along, hurriedly removing his own clothing as well as B.J.'s, throwing it hither and yon, just anyplace to get it out of their way.

B.J. found his favorite spot on Hawkeye's neck and began to suck the skin lightly. Hawkeye, his breath coming quickly now, his fingers brushing up and down and across B.J.'s back, moaned and then whispered, "Know what? Changed my mind."

In between warm kisses and playful licks: "Hmmm?"

Hawkeye breathed, "One hundred percent you."

B.J.'s heart thumped. Good Lord, when he whispers sweet nothings, they are really something. He rolled onto Hawkeye, kissing and caressing, fingers getting lost in hair and moans sinking into skin. "You're all I need, too, Hawk."

When you smile with those eyes
Baby it's like you place a finger on my heart
And your lips next to mine
Make me think that maybe heaven's where you are.
—Anna Nalick, "Forever Love"

They loved going to Seoul. It meant they had the luxury of an actual bed with room on it for two people, and a Do Not Disturb sign that erased any worries of being interrupted.

B.J. was drifting toward sleep after their lovemaking. Hawkeye was pressed against his back, one hand placed on his partner's chest, the other ruffling his hair. B.J. felt sated, loved, and protected. He was nearly asleep when he heard Hawk's voice, at the back of his neck: "Do you love me?"

He smiled, took Hawkeye's hand from his chest and laced their fingers together. "I love you."

"But when the war ends, so does this," Hawk asked, even though it came out sounding like a statement. Sleep suddenly driven from his mind, B.J. felt his smile fade away. He turned around to look his lover in the eye; he deserved that much.

"I'm sorry," he said as gently as he could. Hawkeye's expression was neutral. He'd probably expected that answer. The thing was, sometimes B.J. could imagine giving up his marriage and his life in Mill Valley for Hawkeye, but his daughter was too young…just a baby, really. "But I do love you." As if that would lessen the blow.

Hawkeye only nodded and closed his eyes. Conversation over, apparently. B.J. couldn't have felt worse, but he didn't know what else to say. So he turned back around and pulled Hawk's arms tighter around him. It took a long time, but eventually he found sleep.

And I forgot to tell you
I love you
And night's too long
And cold here without you.
—Sarah McLachlan, "I Love You"

The phone rang at just after midnight, and B.J.'s heart hammered at the sound. He'd been asleep and the sound startled him awake, but more to the point, late-night phone calls were almost always bad news. He got out of bed and quickly padded to the study next door, somehow managing to pick up the phone on the third ring. Hopefully Peg and Erin hadn't woken up.

"Hello?" He braced himself for something alarming.

But the only alarming thing was that it was Hawkeye on the other end, and (he calculated as quickly as he could in his current disoriented state) it was 3 am in Maine, where he was undoubtedly calling from. "Did I wake you? I did, didn't I?"

"That's OK, Hawk. Is everything all right?"

"Fine, fine. I just felt like talking to you. But if it's a bad time, I understand—"

"Not at all. You got me. How are things?"

"Oh, not bad. Just not sleepy tonight, that's all. I had a date earlier, actually. This woman—her name was Susan—and I could not have been more incompatible if we'd tried." He laughed, and it sounded good, to hear his laughter. "Zero chemistry, my friend. I'm telling ya, we set the new world record for awkward moments on a first date."

"So how did you meet her?"

"Oh that's the best part. My father set us up on a blind date. Thought we'd be perfect for each other." Another hearty laugh. "Has this man not known me for my entire life? It's like he was aiming for the Most Disastrous Date of the Century award."

B.J. shared in the laughter. This was nice, the two of them having a real conversation for a change. The war had ended eight months ago, and they'd kept in touch like they promised they would. But their last two phone conversations had been very superficial, little more than chitchat about the weather and their respective jobs. This felt more like the old days. This finally felt like he was talking to his best friend.

"It got me thinking about you," Hawk was saying. "About how there was never a time, and I mean never, when we were uncomfortable with each other. Not even the day we met. Do you remember?"

How could he not? He smiled, thinking of how they made up a rank of Corporal-Captain and stole a General's jeep and got shot at while changing a flat tire. Lord, it seemed like a lifetime ago. But Hawkeye was right. They'd been instant friends. They'd clicked from practically their first minute together.

"We had ourselves a day," he replied.

"That's so rare, you know? The connection we had—have," Hawk corrected himself quickly. Present tense, not past. But B.J. understood what that slip of the tongue was revealing. Loneliness. Longing for something they once shared. His heart sank. He wanted to reach out across the miles and take Hawkeye into his arms.

"You're the best friend I've ever had," B.J. reassured him. "I'm sorry your date didn't work out, but if I know you, you'll be back on the bicycle tomorrow."

"I'm not looking forward to telling my dad that his attempt at matchmaking was a debacle. I think he already started to print the wedding invitations."

B.J. laughed, but let it die out as something occurred to him. "Are you OK, Hawk? I mean, you're not…depressed or anything, are you?"

"Nah, I'm doing OK. Or as well as you can expect for someone whose lifeline is 3000 miles away."

B.J. shut his eyes, struck speechless. He felt that one in the pit of his stomach. Damn, this was rough. Choosing his family over Hawkeye had not been easy, and there were times when he regretted it, but most of the time, he was certain it'd been the right call. For him, at any rate. For Hawkeye, it seemed there was still a lot of pain lingering, even after all these months.

The silence was starting to grow, but Hawkeye quickly filled it, "No, seriously, don't worry. I'm fine. The practice is good and spring is coming and everything's fine."

"I'm glad to hear that, Hawk."

They talked a while longer, wondering about their former campmates, reminiscing a little about some of their more famous pranks, and comparing notes on current events. When Hawkeye audibly yawned, B.J. suggested it was time he get to bed.

"Yeah, it's late," Hawk replied. You think so? B.J. wondered with a smile. "I'll let you get back to bed and snuggling with the missus. It was good to talk to you, Beej. Listen, let's stay in touch, huh?"

"Sure, Hawk. Of course."

But it was the last time they spoke.

In our secret world, we were colliding
In all the places we were hiding love
What was it we were thinking of?
—Peter Gabriel, "Secret World"

B.J. sat on the bed, still turning the envelope over and over in his hands. Just that morning, not even an hour ago, he had returned home from Maine, from burying his best friend. His former lover. He wiped a tear from his face. He thought he'd finished crying, but there were times when it snuck up on him.

Pancreatic cancer. It took him in less than five months from the time he was diagnosed. It must have been scary, it was certainly painful. But he had never picked up the phone and called.

I wish you had called me, Hawk. You asked me once if you could die in my arms. I should've been there to hold you.

Daniel Pierce handed him the envelope after the funeral. His name was scrawled across it in Hawkeye's handwriting. "He asked me to give this to you," was all the old man said. He was taking the loss very, very hard; he had undoubtedly never expected to outlive his son.

"Thank you, sir." B.J. could think of only trite things to say. "He was very special to me. To all of us at the 4077th."

Dr. Pierce only nodded, looking lost and shell-shocked. B.J. would remember that expression for a long time.

Now he was home, alone in the house, in the profound quiet, and the damn envelope was taunting him. A couple of times, he'd come close to opening it, then chickened out. He considered throwing it into his desk drawer and dealing with it some other time, when he was more emotionally stable. But no, that would almost seem like turning his back on Hawkeye. Which he'd done too often before.

Finally, after far too much stalling, he sighed and said out loud, "Just do it." With a shaking hand, he opened the envelope, shut his eyes in a kind of prayer, Please don't let it hurt too badly… then took out the single sheet of paper and read it.

He didn't know what he had expected it to say, but it was certainly not this. The words, so brief, so stark, went through him like a dagger.

"One hundred percent you."

That was all. Nothing else. No long-winded, flowery missive, no ramble or rant from the man who loved words so much he practically rolled around in them.

"One hundred percent you."

He just stared at the note for a minute or two. Then he curled up in a ball on his bed as sobs tore through his body, seemed to consume his world. The crying wouldn't stop for a very long time.

That sound you hear... That sound you hear is my heart breaking.