Surrender

Hawkeye stumbles into the Swamp after post-op duty, says only "G'night," and collapses onto his cot.

"Night," I reply, but who knows if he even hears me. Seems like he fell asleep as soon as he went horizontal. Post-op had followed 12 hours of surgery, and he's completely spent.

I put down the book I'd been reading, my concentration gone. The Swamp goes very still and I realize I can't take my eyes off Hawkeye. I watch him sleeping and wonder what it would be like to be lying there with him, wrapped in his arms.

Uh, B.J., my pesky conscience says, you remember Peg?

Who's Peg?

Damn, that's cold. But really, I've been here so long, I sometimes have a hard time believing I'm married. I can't even recall what it's like to live with a woman, or share a bed with a woman.

But that's not even it. It's not about missing my wife. It's not even about missing sexual contact, wanting some kind of human touch. It's realizing that you might have found your soul mate in the most unlikely place on earth... realizing that chemistry is chemistry, love is love, and gender doesn't enter into it. The heart does what the heart does, and the brain may want to overrule it, but I don't see any point in waging an internal war. The external war is bad enough.

As long as I don't have to say it out loud, I'm OK admitting it to myself. I'm in love with him. I never had these kinds of feelings for a man before, but everything about Hawkeye is unique, so why wouldn't my reaction to him be?

The real quandary, then, is what to do about it. Go on suffering in silence, feel the constant longing and frustration, or roll the dice and say something to him. Quite the gamble. We live in the same tent, for God's sake. If my feelings made him uncomfortable, we'd be forever awkward with each other.

Barely giving it any thought, I go over to his cot and sit next to him. He stirs a little, then drifts off again. I don't want to wake him up… I do want to wake him up... C'mon, B.J., waking him would be cruel. He needs to sleep. But now that I'm at his side, I can't bring myself to leave, so I carefully lie down next to him and pull him close. His arms go around me like this is the most natural thing in the world.

Maybe it is.

His sleepy voice at my neck: "What's a nice boy like you doing in a place like this?"

"Sorry I woke you. You looked like you needed a hug." No, that would be me… I was the one needing the hug. He doesn't call me on the lie. Now feeling very uncertain about this, about everything, I add, "I'll go back to my bed if you want."

His embrace gets a little tighter. "No, it's OK. Stay here." His sexy whisper of a voice bounces around inside my head, sends a tingling down my spine. I close my eyes and savor the sensation of his warm body pressed against mine.

He falls asleep again, and I follow him.

The next day brings more wounded and hours spent in surgery. When finally we finish with the last of the casualties and retire to the Swamp, we're both too keyed up for sleep. Hawkeye pours two glasses of gin from the still, but I don't touch mine.

I also don't retreat to my own bunk, opting to sit next to Hawkeye on his. "How long've I been here?" I say. "Ten, eleven months?"

"Time flies when you're having fun," he says, taking a sip from his glass.

"And I don't think I've ever seen you go gin-less for one day. How about it? Would you put that down in mid-drink if I asked you to?"

He seems to weigh how serious I am, then puts the glass down. "Done," he says. "I can quit anytime I want, doctor. Do I sense a lecture coming?"

"No." Suddenly I feel like the morality police, and I get angry at myself. The man can drink if he wants to. "I'm sorry, Hawk. Go ahead and drink. Don't mind me."

"No, no. Like I said, I don't need it. Little worried about you, though. You've been acting strange lately. I swear you were in my bed last night. Or was that Goldilocks?" He shakes his head. "Nah, couldn't have been, the feet were too big."

I stare at him, getting lost in the blue of his eyes and noting the concern that's clouding them. We're close on his cot, nearly touching, and I feel a warmth spread over me just because of the proximity of his body. I didn't want you to drink because I want you stone sober for what's about to happen. Am I making him uncomfortable? Since I'm not saying anything, he has to break the silence. "What's going on, Beej?"

"Nothing," is my knee-jerk response. I know he'd let it go if I stopped right there, if I chickened out, but I plow ahead… in a way. "Actually, something. But I'm not sure I should say."

"Just say," he replies in his off-hand, what's-the-big-deal tone.

He waits, but no words come to me. He senses something, maybe that this is a more serious matter than he expected, and he reaches out and puts his hand on my arm. Always touching, always making contact, that's Hawkeye. "Is there trouble at home?" he asks gently.

Don't remind me of them. I don't want to feel guilty tonight. I just want to get lost in you.

I shake my head. I'm still searching for words but the right ones aren't coming to me. So after a moment, I simply lean into him and kiss him softly on the mouth. He's caught off guard, but he doesn't pull away. His hand hasn't left my arm, he's not reacting with distaste, he seems to be… willing but wondering.

I break the kiss, my heart pounding. "I've been wanting to do that for a long time."

He gives me a level stare, as if trying to determine that this is really what I want, and then he's pulling me in for a much more satisfying kiss. Mouths open and tongues connect, the kiss is hungry, and I feel my body react. He comes back for another kiss and then another, each one more intense than the last. He gently pushes me back onto the cot and leans over me, his dog tags tapping me on the chest, his breath warm at my neck. "Are we really gonna do this?" he asks.

"Yes." Please, Hawkeye, don't have second thoughts. I don't. His hand burrows under my shirt and runs up my side. My heart thunders in my ears. I somehow manage to add, "Could you stop asking questions now?"

"I think I can find other ways to occupy my mouth, yes." And he puts that mouth at my earlobe, then high on my cheek, then back on my lips. I can taste the gin but beneath that there's masculinity and strength. This feels more comfortable to me—more right—than it should.

He pulls back a bit and our gazes lock. This isn't just sex, he's telling me without actually telling me. Yeah, I can see that. If it were, there wouldn't be this much eye contact. I nod a little… something passes between us… but I give up trying to define what's going on. Finally his mouth is back where it belongs, on mine. His left hand drifts down between my legs and begins to stroke, and I let out a moan. His every movement is confident and skilled, and it occurs to me that this may not be his first time with a man. Never gave it much thought before. Don't want to give it any thought now. I surrender to whatever he wants to do. I may have started this, but he's taken control.

We both need to take a breath, and I put my mouth near his ear. "Everything changes now," I whisper, and I don't just mean our relationship, but my state of mind and my future too. I wonder if he has any idea what I'm trying to convey, but then he says exactly the right thing, and I realize he knows my mind as if he lives inside it.

"Everything falls into place now."

Yeah. That's what I meant.

And then we're done talking.