Rating: Adult. If you're under eighteen, please go elsewhere now.
Disclaimer: These characters belong to 20th Century Fox, not to me.
Sequel to In Your Eyes.
Gin tastes like sex.
It's been two weeks since he and Hawkeye rolled around together in the rain, and yet every time he sips a martini, he tastes Hawkeye's lips, flavored with gin, and memories flood him. Memories of wet skin and mud and the scent of crushed grass and nearly unbearable pleasure...
But he can't think about that. He can't. He's a married man, a happily married man, and he's supposed to be thinking about his wife, fantasizing about his wife, dreaming about his wife. He's not supposed to be obsessing over his best friend, a guy with a wide grin and a cackling laugh and an almost desperate reverence for life.
B.J. is doing his best to honor his wedding vows, to be the loyal, faithful husband he wants to be, and yet somehow all the letters to Peg he's writing aren't helping. He can't seem to stop thinking about Hawkeye, and their night together.
He's had a lot of martinis tonight. He's entitled. It's been a hell of a day, fourteen straight hours of surgery punctuated with shells dropping way too closse for comfort, the operating room rattling around them as they sewed mutilated bodies back together.
But the wounded have all finally been taken care of, and the shelling has stopped. Major Frank Burns is on duty in Post-Op, and so B.J. and Hawkeye have retreated to the Swamp, and are getting cheerfully obliterated on bad gin.
"To the greatest two surgeons in Korea," Hawk says, holding up his martini glass. He's smashed, so greatest comes out greatisht, but B.J.'s just as smashed, and can understand him just fine.
"Helluva day," B.J. says, less than articulately, and drains his own glass. "Helluva day."
"We did great." Hawk grins his ridiculously wide grin. "Issa damn good thing we're here."
B.J. isn't sure he can agree with that. He'd give almost anything not to be here. And yet, as he looks at Hawkeye over the rim of his martini glass, he wonders if that's really true. Because as much as he loathes this place-- as much as he hates the rats and the lice and the shelling and the bodies ripped to hell-- he met Hawkeye here.
And in a sudden flash of clarity through the gin's fog, he knows he wouldn't have missed that for anything.
So on some level, he is glad he's here, in this tent, sitting across from Hawkeye Pierce. He wants to say so, but the gin isn't improving his ability to get ideas across.
"Hawk," he says, hearing the throaty quality of his voice a little too late. "Hawk... it is a good thing. Me... you... I'm glad."
Hawkeye looks at him for a long moment, as if despite B.J.'s clumsy stumbles over the words, he understands everything B.J. is trying to tell him. Everything.
And then he's putting his gin glass down on his footlocker, rising to his feet, and stumbling the two feet to B.J.'s cot. He turns off the light over the cot, casting the Swamp into darkness.
Their arms come around each other and they're kissing, just like the two intervening weeks never happened. Just like they never tried to pull away from each other at all.
Hawkeye tastes of gin, of sex, of blood. His long, lanky body feels too thin under B.J.'s questing hands, all bones and wiry muscle. no hint of fat anywhere. Hawkeye's hands are on him, too, exploring, caressing, and he remembers another night when Hawkeye's hand brought him to ecstasy. The memory makes him shiver.
They both know Frank Burns could walk in at any moment, and that knowledge lends a certain desperation to their kisses. Hawkeye strips off B.J.'s shirt and then kisses his way down his chest, his mouth hot and wet. And then he's dropping to his knees in front of B.J., and even through the anesthesizing gin B.J. is shocked.
Hawkeye can't possibly-- no one's ever-- not even Peg-- Hawkeye surely doesn't intend to--
But Hawkeye's hands are on his belt buckle, surprisingly sure and deft, and then he's unzipping B.J.'s pants, and B.J. realizes that yes, Hawk does intend to. He's surprised by the strength of his own reaction, shocked to realize how hard he is, how hot and needy.
The first brush of Hawk's lips over his erection make his spine arch like a reed in the wind. Hawk is kissing him, soft, gentle caresses of his lips over flesh that's been denied release for too long, and B.J. wants to wail aloud with the pleasure, but he sets his jaw, grinding his teeth together, and manages to hold the noises back.
But in his head, he's sobbing and begging for more. Yes, Hawk, yes, oh, God yes...
For a long while, that's all there is to it, careful, delicate kisses that drive B.J. to the edge of madness. And then Hawkeye's lips part, and he's drawing B.J. into his mouth, and it's like nothing B.J.'s ever experienced before. The heat and the moisture and the feeling of Hawk's lips sliding up and down him... his body shudders helplessly, and he feels his hips moving, driving his erection deep into Hawk's mouth in an unmistakably sexual rhythm.
He's gasping for breath, his hands clenching the sheets of his cot, every muscle rigid. Frank could walk in at any moment, but right now he just does... not... care. All that matters in the world is Hawkeye's mouth, the sheer sweet pleasure that rolls through B.J. in ever-increasing waves, and the knowledge that this is right, that no matter how hard he tries to fight against his need for Hawk, he can't resist it for long.
Whatever this attraction is between him and Hawkeye-- he can't deny it, or pretend that it doesn't exist. It is, and no amount of ignoring it can make it go away.
He feels his muscles going rigid, and he reaches down and tries to push Hawkeye away, before he... well, before...
But Hawkeye won't stop. His mouth is more relentless than before, moving faster and harder, and B.J. surrenders with a gasp. His fingers dig deep into Hawk's dark hair, and bliss rolls over him and through him. It's so good, better than anything he can ever remember before, as if he's never truly experienced intimacy before this moment. He trembles with the force of it, barely able to hold back his cries of ecstasy.
And when it's over, he's falling back on the cot, limp and exhausted, and Hawkeye is next to him. For a few moments they cuddle together, sharing warm, sweet kisses. B.J. can taste himself on Hawkeye, and that ought to repulse him, and yet somehow it just makes these stolen moments that much more intimate.
He wishes he could stay here, wrapped in Hawk's embrace, all night, but they both know that's impossible. After a few moments Hawk kisses him one last time, gets up, and staggers to his own cot. There's the sound of his long, lean body stretching out, the faint creak of the cot under his weight.
"Night, Beej," he says, just as he always does. There's a faint hint of mischief in his voice as he adds, "Sweet dreams."
"Night, Hawk," B.J. answers.
And then he closes his own eyes, and almost instantly, sleep settles on him like a warm, soft blanket. And despite all the torn-up boys he operated on today, all the shelling, all the horror that attends a day in Korea...
His dreams are sweet.