Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Mail call, sirs,” came Radar’s voice, his head popping up in the mesh window of the door to the Swamp.

“Enter, young page!” Hawkeye called out as he leaned back in his cot, his hands folded behind his head.

Mail call was a pretty standard affair – Frank and Trapper getting letters from their wives, and Hawkeye receiving the sporadic medical journal or women’s tennis magazine in between the occasional letter from his father. If the postal service was feeling especially fruitful that day, he might even get a cologne sample or a single dryer sheet, and boy did those days make life worth living.

Radar dug through his mail bag, reading the names out loud to himself until he got to the bundle of swamp rat letters. He handed the first few to Trapper, then Frank ripped the remaining envelope right from Radar’s hands. Radar rolled his eyes then dug back in the bag and pulled out Hawkeye’s stack, holding it out to him.

“For you, sir, you got quite a few this time.”

“The life of a celebrity, Radar,” Hawkeye said, taking the mail and fanning his face with the stack. “But don’t you worry, I told myself I would never let the fame get to my head. I’ll always remember the little people.”

“Oh, ha-ha,” Radar said, scrunching up his face. He turned on his heel, pushing through the door with a grumble.

Hawkeye flipped through the stack, the contents exactly what he was expecting – generic and impersonal, just a few magazines to pass the time and a reminder that he was overdue for a teeth cleaning. But he paused when he got to the last letter. There was something new in the mix this time, a small blue envelope with tight, messy handwriting. Doctor’s scrawl, Hawkeye thought to himself. But he’d know his father’s handwriting anywhere, and there weren’t any doctors at home itching to write him any letters. There was no name in the return address either, just the phrase “Talk to the Troops!” with an identification number beneath it.

He tore open the envelope then pulled out the top half of the letter and began reading:

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Hello soldier!

I realized as soon as I wrote it that there’s no way to say that without it sounding like a come on, but since I’m writing in pen, here I am, saying it anyway. So, hello soldier! Greetings from your new pen pal.

My wife signed me up for this Talk to the Troops service. She said I’ve been spending too much of my time obsessing over the news, and figured this would give me a hobby that would let me do something about it instead of just pacing around my living room. A way to get a first-hand account of what life is like over there. I like the idea, but truthfully the name is simply awful. Not even a play on the word “draft”? Maybe… Drafts for the Drafted? Or maybe something else like Army Amigos? Military Memos? No, those aren’t all that great, either. I’ll keep workshopping.

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Hawkeye chuckled as he pulled the paper the rest of the way out of the envelope.

“Something good?” Trapper asked from his bunk, his own hands curled around a letter from his girls, the bright red crayon visible from all the way across the tent.

“Something unexpected,” Hawkeye responded with a grin. He read on.

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Just in case you were also signed up for this pen pal service against your will, the idea is that you and I will correspond anonymously with each other – shooting the breeze, sharing life updates and what have you – and not only will I be making a personal connection with one of our brave, upstanding men, but you’ll also know that there’s someone back in the states thinking about you. Although I’m sure you already have people at home missing you. Do you have a wife? Kids? Obese dog? Feral cat?

My wife is currently pregnant with our first. Kid, not pet, obviously. My first pet was a terribly dull goldfish named Rex. No matter how hard I tried I couldn’t teach it a single trick. Hoping I have better luck with my child. I can’t wait to meet the little one. I wake each day with a pit in my stomach knowing that I may be taken from them if this war doesn’t end soon.

Anyway, if you ignore this message, I’ll know that you’re not interested in keeping up with this, but I hope that I hear back from you soon. I’d be happy to be a friend for you, even from so far away.

Take care,

Your Pen Pal

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Hawkeye grinned down at the letter, flipping it over to see if there was anything on the back. There was a slight twinge of disappointment when he realized there wasn’t.

He certainly didn’t sign himself up for any anonymous pen pal service, so he could only assume that someone at home must have. And there was only one person Hawkeye knew of that took to this level of meddling in his personal affairs.

“Well, Hawk, you planning on sharing with the class?” Trapper asked after a minute, staring at Hawkeye like he’d been waiting on him for a while. “I’m dyin’ of curiosity over here.”

“Lonely Soldiers Club,” Hawkeye said, holding up the letter. “Pretty sure this pen pal service was meant to be a way for the ladies back home to bag themselves a G.I. husband, but it looks like I’m the one who got the husband instead.”

“Mazel tov,” Trapper said with a crooked grin, “Well, are you gonna write ‘im back?”

“You know what? Maybe I will. Maybe I’ll convince him I’m actually a nurse. Get him to dump his current wife and send a stateside proposal through the mail. It could be my ticket home.”

“If that worked I woulda had Lorraine hitch herself to you months ago.”

Hawkeye shrugged. “Her loss. Imagine me as your third. The children would have your hair and my nose.”

“Or my nose and your hair.”

“A Hollywood starlet in the making. I’ll start looking into talent agencies right away.”

**ATTENTION! INCOMING WOUNDED! LACE UP YOUR GIRDLES AND MAKE YOUR WAY TO THE DANCE FLOOR POST HASTE.**

“Proposals will have to wait,” Hawkeye said, dropping the letter to the ground as he leapt to his feet. The two of them raced out of the Swamp and into the O.R., Frank trailing behind them at his usual snail’s pace.

Hawkeye scrubbed up and made his way to the operating table, ready to tend to the latest batch of scrambled soldiers. The air was frigid in the O.R., the outside winds howling and clawing in through ragged holes in the mesh windows. Wounded were being rotated so quickly that Hawkeye’s hands were still warm from being inside the first body as the next was laid out in front of him. It kept his fingers nimble, and he tried not to find comfort in that.

The day dissolved into night, Hawkeye judging the passing of time by the growing ache in his upper back and the pulsing in his feet. By the time he stumbled out of the O.R., the sun was beginning to peek over the horizon, casting the camp in a hazy glow.

Trapper was already asleep in his bunk, still wearing his blood-stained scrubs underneath his heavy jacket. Frank was also tucked into his cot, blissfully silent with nary a snore to be heard, a small victory after such an exhausting shift. Hawkeye collapsed in his bunk, the throbbing in his legs beginning to match the one behind his eyes. He squeezed his eyes shut, burying his face in his pillow.

As much as it was his life’s purpose to help people, he couldn’t suppress the vision of himself working as a simple store clerk, or maybe an accountant, or one of those waitresses selling cigarettes and antacid tablets in seedy bars – stockinged legs and high heels on full display. He’d take any job if it meant never have to cut into a kid, barely old enough to shave, with his insides making a bid for being on the outside instead.

The problem was, all of those visions were murky, difficult to grasp, link ink spreading through water. Hawkeye had been here nearly a year already, and it was getting harder and harder to picture his life outside of a ramshackle tent and worn-out boots.

He turned his head to the side and sucked in a lungful of cold air. Through bleary eyes he caught a glimpse of the blue envelope, which had fallen to the ground when he had rushed to surgery. He leaned the top half of his body over the side of his cot and picked it up, skimming the words again.

There wasn’t really anything of substance in it, but this pen pal seemed genuine. Funny. Plus, he appreciated that the guy didn’t ask him any questions about the war, despite wanting to know “what life is like” here. He was sure that he would have just tossed the letter aside if it was coming from another Frank Burns type, someone hoping to bask in secondhand military glory.

But this person might actually want a friend. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to talk to this guy. Writing back could be fun, and maybe having something to look forward to in the mail other than letters from Dad and a gaggle of coupons would be a nice change of pace.

Plus, it would be an anonymous friendship where for a brief moment, Hawkeye didn’t need to be Captain B.F. Pierce, defender of the damaged and sewist of the slain. He could just be...a person on the other end of a mailbox. One that just so happened to be in Korea.

With a groan that echoed through his muscles, he sat himself up, leaned over to his bookshelf, and grabbed a paper and pen.

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Dear Friend,

I must say I was a little surprised to receive your letter. Usually when I get something written to me on beautiful stationery, it’s from a lovely young lady looking to send more than just pleasantries through the mail, if you catch my drift. But I suppose in this case some nice words from a handsome young doctor will have to do.

I believe my father signed me up for this. Good old dad, always making sure the neighborhood kids involved me in their games. To answer your questions, I’m not married, and there are no kids. Dad’s just about all I’ve got waiting for me back home. Can I tell you, when my number came up, my first thought was “Who’s going to get the groceries when I’m gone?” It killed me to leave him. And yet, here he is, making sure I’m not the one who’s lonely. He’s a hell of a man.

Congratulations to you and your wife. I love kids. We recently had a little boy stay here at the camp. His name was Kim. Five years old, injured, and orphaned (or so we thought, but I get ahead of myself) after his village was destroyed by artillery fire. We all loved him. Our CO would let him play in the office, and we had one of our corporals teaching him baseball. Even our one major, who’s quite the pistol, softened for him, reading to him at night.

My tentmate is the one who fell for him the hardest, though. He didn’t want to see that kid disappear into an orphanage. He did everything in his power to adopt him, even sent out a letter to his wife to make sure she and his little girls would welcome the new family member. We here at the camp kept the local orphanage on hold, stalling while we waited for an answer.

But no sooner did he get the go-ahead from the missus and get the paperwork all sorted – and take the time to rescue Kim from a minefield. Kids, always getting into places they shouldn’t – did Kim’s mother show up at camp, looking for her son.

Of course we were happy to see them reunited, but the heartbreak was palpable. We were all sorry to see Kim go. Kids are one of the few glimmers of hope we see around here. They’re proof that the future is possible, because one day these kids are going to be grown ups, too. And hopefully they’ll do a better job of it than we all do.

Anyway, all this to say, let’s do it. Let’s be pals of the pen and ink persuasion. Who doesn’t love to get mail? Sometimes it feels like I and the rest of my camp are living in our own little universe here, trapped outside of time. It’d be nice to have some more connection to the outside world, to know it’s not all olive drab and various flavors and colors of mush.

Speaking of food, tell me. Do eggs still come in non-powdered variety? And are they still making meat? Fresh, uncanned meat that isn’t just repackaged organs? Are we as a society still getting around in automobiles? Or did we finally crack the code on flying cars? Wouldn’t that be something?

I look forward to your response,

H

Chapter Text

H,

First of all, how did you know that I’m a doctor? Did your draft board pick you to be your unit’s psychic? And knowing that I’m handsome, too… You must be pretty damned good at it. I gotta say it’s quite the gig – you’ll always know what the enemy’s thinking.

As for your pressing queries: eggs and meat do, in fact, exist in their most fresh state. However, if I’m the one preparing them you might be safer eating what you’ve got over there. There’s a “mysterious” dark spot above our oven that’s “been there since we moved in” – that in truth was actually my disastrous attempt at making the first meal in our new home. Did you know asparagus was flammable? They’re like green, leafy matchsticks. Really, I should have expected it. That one was on me.

As for cars, we tried the whole flying thing for a while, but had to ground them all once the birds started complaining about the influx of traffic on their daily commute. We’ve all decided to go back to penny-farthings. I’m charging the local kids a nickel apiece to tie a rope to the frame and have me pull them down the street on their roller skates. I’ve got to pay for medical school somehow.

Speaking of kids, your bunkmate sounds like a real stand up guy. I haven’t even met my kid yet, and I already know I’d do anything for her. Her! We just found out the gender yesterday, and we are over the moon. If a kid like your Kim showed up on my doorstep needing a safe and loving home, I already know I would’ve stopped at nothing to give it to him. I hope your friend is reunited with his own girls soon.

H… Now what could that stand for? Howard? Harry? Horatio? Let me know if I’m getting warm.

Until next time,

Your Pen Pal

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“Another from your admirer?” Trapper asked from across the table, mouth stuffed with dry toast.

Hawkeye snorted. “Hardly an admirer. Simply a connection to the outside world. Proof of some color other than olive drab.” He waved the envelope in front of Trapper’s face. Yellow stationery this time.

“I dunno, Hawk. You sure are smiling an awful lot for someone just looking for proof of life. You sure your new friend didn’t slip in a dirty picture?” He reached across the table, trying to pull the letter free of Hawkeye’s fingers, but Hawkeye yanked it out of his reach.

“The guy’s got a sense of humor! It’s refreshing! Meanwhile, the only laughs we get here are at the expense of our dear Frank.”

“That’s not true!” Trapper gasped, indignant. “Sometimes we laugh at Radar.”

Hawkeye clicked his tongue and waggled his finger disapprovingly. “No, we laugh with Radar. There’s a difference. A level of respect.”

“Oh, thank you, sirs,” Radar said with a small grin as he passed behind Hawkeye’s bench, his breakfast tray piled high. Hawkeye raised his eyebrows and looked at Trapper pointedly, gesturing towards their clerk.

“You see? Frank never thanks us for our service.”

Hawkeye folded up the letter and tucked it into his jacket pocket, patting it once to confirm its safe-keeping.

He had hoped his pen pal would still want to write to him after his – admittedly lengthy – response. The words had just tumbled out of him, like his pen had some of its own ideas about what was print-worthy. He certainly hadn’t intended to start talking about his dad, about Kim. But apparently five short, mildly charming paragraphs were enough to get him to open up. He never said he wasn't easy.

This letter arrived after only a few weeks, though, and given the postmark the guy must have written back right away. So, Hawkeye must not have come on too strong, then. He’d read and re-read the letter several times before coming to breakfast, the creases in the pale yellow paper already becoming soft and fragile.

Hawkeye spent the rest of the day planning his response. Even in the O.R. he had the letter tucked away in his pocket, his hand subtly brushing against it in-between patients. It was grounding, a reminder that somewhere, thousands of miles away from shelling and blood and meatballs, there was someone waiting to hear back from him.

When he finally had a moment to himself, free from his scrubs and back in his cot, he pulled out his pen and began to write.

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Dear Friend,

Horatio? Not even close on the name game, sweet prince. And what about yours? I know we’re supposed to remain anonymous but I don’t even get a lousy letter? Seems like unfair play, to me, seeing as I was willing to bend the rules a bit for you. And everyone knows I’m just a stickler for rules. Big rule follower, me.

I’m not a psychic, but from one M.D. to another, that chicken scratch was a dead giveaway for members of our shared profession. Lucky for you, because if some other sorry soul had gotten your first letter, they might still be decoding your opening line. So really, the only sixth sense at play here was a sense of camaraderie. Fellowship. A common affinity for tongue depressors and old magazines.

If anyone around here was in touch with the spiritual plane, it would be our company clerk. He can always tell when we’re about to get helicopters full of wounded, well before any of the rest of us can hear the chopper blades. Forms and requisitions are in his hands and ready for signing before anyone’s even asked him to dig them out. Some men are always a step ahead, but this kid is at least three and a half. Maybe even three and five-eighths.

There was an afternoon a few months ago… our C.O. had been filling his tackle box for an afternoon fishing trip. The dust from the lid of the box must have got to him – he sneezed and stabbed a hook clean through his thumb. In and out through the pad of the fingertip. How do I know this? I watched the whole thing as it happened. The young clairvoyant had already requested I come to the office, first aid kit in tow, long before our C.O. even opened the box. The whole place would fall apart without the kid, I’m certain of it.

A fishing hook through the finger… I gotta say, I would rather take a million more ridiculous cases like that before I had to cut open one more torn up soldier. Hell, maybe I’d even take up fishing myself. God knows I’d have a lot more free time if I didn’t have to spend all day every day treating wounded like my own personal tinker toys.

Congratulations on the baby girl. May she arrive happy and healthy, and may the war be over long before she turns eighteen.

-H

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Hercule,

Sorry, my name is made up of letters, so that might be giving up the game too easily. You’re welcome to start guessing if you’d like. There’s only a million possibilities.

So, a fellow doctor, huh? Maybe you and I have crossed paths at some medical conference and didn’t even know it. I’m still finishing up my residency, but I always volunteer to go to those things. I’m always trying to keep up to date with the latest research – anything to help my patients. My wife says she can always tell when I have a difficult case at work, because I start pacing around the house like a madman, muttering to myself and scribbling down random notes, leaving them on every available surface.

I had this one kid come in, a teenager, known him for years. He was always totally healthy – exercised, ate right, even got the full eight hours of sleep (something I certainly wasn’t doing at his age). Then one day – Bam! Sick. Exhausted, weak, barely wanted to eat… But nothing I prescribed was working for him.

I spent weeks tearing through every journal I could find. I wrote to college classmates I hadn’t spoken to since graduation, begging for their insight. I studied at the library so long that the librarians started letting me stay after closing while they cleaned up for the evening. I was certain that if I could just find the right journal, the right article, that I would land on the magic answer for this kid.

All those weeks passed and I still had no answers. Finally, I asked the hospital’s medical director to weigh in. He took one look at the kid’s charts and said, “Well have you started him on insulin?”

Diabetic! He was diabetic! I should have figured it out right away. A first year medical student could have caught all the signs, and I completely missed it. I was so stupid, looking for dragons instead of something right in front of me. I was glad the kid got better, of course I was. But to think of how much pain the boy could have avoided if I had been better at my job… I never want to put my patients through that ever again.

I can only imagine the types of cases you get over there, things that would make my Mysterious Diabetes look like a paper cut. I won’t ask you about that – I know how much that sort of thing can weigh (see above). But I will ask, what do you do for fun over there? (Besides writing to me, of course.) Surely there have to be moments of levity to keep you from going completely insane. I’d love to hear all about it.

Write soon,

Your Pen Pal

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Dear Friend,

Hercule?? Would that it were, but alas it is not. Keep guessing. You’ll never get it. You see, it’s not even from my given name, but rather a nickname. As for yours, all names are made up of letters, wise guy. You’ll have to give me something to work with here.

I hate to break it to you, but I’m not much of a conference goer. A bunch of stuffy doctors, so full of themselves as to demand that an entire auditorium travel across the country to spend a whole weekend listening to them wax rhapsodic about some new procedure that probably took a whole team of lower-level interns and residents to figure out? I’ll pass. I’m perfectly content to read any and all medical journals, instead. It’s faster, quieter, and I can do it in my skivvies. Win, win, win.

I don’t think you should beat yourself up about that kid. Everyone makes mistakes, even stupid ones. Including me. 

See, if I may toot my own horn for a bar or two, I’m a damned good surgeon. One of the best. But I got it into my head that I was a god. Infallible. The war couldn’t touch me because I was taking the broken kids they kept throwing at me and bringing them back from the brink with nothing but a knife, some silk, and an arsenal of audacity – and I was making it everyone else’s problem, too.

But then one of my patients kept taking a nosedive after I had already closed him up. Pain, fever, the works. I pulled my own madman routine as I tried to figure out the problem on my own. I turned everyone’s help away, even my closest friends. Eventually our C.O. had to talk some sense into me – serving me up a heaping tray of freshly-grilled crow.

I finally caved and went back in. Shrapnel had nicked the back of the sigmoid colon, a small tear. I missed it. Anyone would have, but what had affected me the most was that I did. The kid could’ve died because I was congratulating myself too hard, trying to take on the worst by assuming I was the best. Our head nurse even suggested that maybe I’d missed something but I dismissed her like a college professor desperate to get home to his armchair and scotch.

That’s why we doctors usually work as a team. Sometimes you really just need a fresh set of eyes. Another perspective. Sometimes that’s what’s best for the patient. Not our god complexes.

You are right about one thing, though. We do need a little fun to keep the butterfly nets at bay. Safe to say, we don’t exactly have access to bowling alleys and dance halls, but we do what we can. Our C.O. is always trying to get us the latest films, though there’s no accounting for taste from the good censors at HQ. Our monthly VD seminars are always a rollicking good time, and a great place to pick up a nurse for an evening of testing our knowledge. I know all the quiet corners of the camp, perfect for entertaining – from having a drink in the officer’s club to doing a little “inventory” in the supply tent. There’s little better than doing a nice, thorough inventory with a nice, thorough nurse. But you know what I’m talking about, since you, too, have admitted to some sleepless nights…

When a warm and willing body isn’t available, I usually spend my time with my bunkmate, either tormenting our third, regular-army roomie or drinking our troubles away with the life-sustaining offerings of our homemade still. I make a hell of a dry martini, so dry you’re already reaching for a second one just to quench your thirst.

Honestly, it gets very boring here. Most of the time, there’s nothing to do but wait around for more wounded, even though you dread the sound of the choppers because you are so sick of patching up these kids just to send them through the ringer again. Writing to you really is one of the few highlights in the endless, pointless loop of despair and filth we find ourselves in here. But don’t let it go to your head, Mister Letters. I got enough ego for the both of us.

-H

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Hippocrates,

To tell you the truth, I like that you think of me as a Dear Friend (capital letters and all). So unfortunately for you, I’m not going to give you any more hints about my name. And I promise I won’t let the fact that you look forward to my letters get to my head, so long as you don’t let it get to yours that I look forward to yours, too. My wife keeps telling me to put a chair out by the mailbox if I’m going to check it so often. Though I do think she’s happy that I did, in fact, make a friend with this little experiment. That is why she signed me up in the first place, after all.

Thank you, for saying all that about that kid. Maybe all of us doctors have too much of that audacity you mentioned – we think we can save the world by ourselves and then have the gall to act surprised when we can’t.

Good to know that you’re finding some romantic company for the long, cold nights. Perhaps your C.O. has the right idea, giving those VD seminars on a regular basis. Though, according to you, you aren’t really one for those anyway. Let’s hope you paid enough attention to not flunk the class.

And for your information, I was up late at night reading as a teenager. Perhaps your mind is as filthy as your camp, to assume I was doing anything else.

The nights are warm here in California, and probably very different from the weather you guys are experiencing now. I feel a million miles away from you, despite the news giving us constant updates on the war efforts whether we want them or not. I have to admit, part of why I’m glad to receive your letters is that it lets me know you’re still okay out there. We haven’t been friends for very long, but I think my poor, fragile heart couldn’t take it if your letters were to stop. I do tend to worry. The news from the front is scary, but it sounds like you’re not quite on the front lines. I’m grateful for that. I wouldn’t want anything to happen to you.

Maybe it’s naive of me, but I will never understand the need for all this fighting. Why can’t the big brass just shake hands and agree that there isn’t a cause in the universe that’s worth thousands of their own men dying? Why can’t they settle their differences like grown adults?

If it were my daughter getting into a fight at school, I would tell her to solve her problem with words (or maybe a clever prank or two…), not guns and bombs and tanks. That’s how the people at the peace talks should handle it, too. Anything to stop them from putting those young men on your table. I’ve seen the numbers of casualties. The newspapers update the tally every day. And lately I can’t stop thinking about how many more there’d be if people like you weren’t over there performing miracles.

Sorry to get so morose. I know it doesn’t mean much, me saying all these things from the comfort of my home while you’re out there living it. But just know I would do anything to end the war so you could finally return home, too. Even if I had to come pick you up on my penny-farthing and bring you back myself.

Sincerely,

Your Dear Friend

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Dear Friend,

Tell me about California.

Hawkeye

Chapter Text

The letters kept coming.

In a few short months, Hawkeye’s footlocker had become stuffed with a rainbow of letterhead from his Dear Friend. There were a few from his father – who had been unbearably smug about his successful attempt at friend-matchmaking for his son – shuffled in there as well. But pretty much all of Hawkeye’s mail was now coming from Dear Friend.

The messages themselves had gotten a lot more personal, too. Anecdotes about hometowns and current events became recollections of lost loves and personal tragedy. Hawkeye shared how cold and empty his house felt after his mother died, how it was the only time he ever saw his father cry. How the only other time he felt that emptiness was when Carlye left him. He began telling Dear Friend about the cases that came through the 4077 – the good, the bad, and the ugly. 

Dear Friend was a little more reserved, but slowly and carefully began to sprinkle in little details about his life, too. He talked about the first girl he ever loved, and about the first time he ever lost a patient. He kept dropping hints about how distant he was from his family, only ever talking about his wife and daughter in detail. Each time Dear Friend revealed a little more about who he really was beneath the fancy stationery, Hawkeye felt a triumphant flare of victory, like he won points in a game he was still learning all the rules for.

He was also beginning to feel a flare of something else, too - something warm and dangerous fluttering beneath his ribs every time a new colorful envelope slipped into his hands.

Hawkeye was hardly the most straight-laced man in the war, in more ways than one. He flirted with everyone, toed the line between what was considered cheeky versus genuine with Olympian precision. But he knew actually acting on any of those flirtations, regardless of his own ethics and personal proclivities, would land him in far hotter water than simple joking ever would. Besides, he loved the company of the nurses, and was perfectly content to continue acting on his baser needs with them. What could he say? He was non-discriminating in his desires.

But there were moments in Dear Friend’s letters, hints that maybe he, too, had some friends in Oz. Moments where a harmless flirtation on paper might seem a little too genuine if held up to the light, or perhaps even murmured over drinks in the dark. Then there was that one story he shared about a falling-out with a boyhood friend, the details of that heartache a little more acute than that of a platonic parting of ways. A small, hopeful part of him whispered – it’s certainly possible.

Late at night, while the ink was drying and he was imagining what it would be like when his letter made its way into Dear Friend’s hands, Hawkeye would try to Frankenstein together an image of his mystery pen pal. Sometimes he was short, frantic and blustering around like Radar did. Other times, he was loud and brazen, like Margaret when she was using her powers for good. Most of the time, Hawkeye pictured him as tall, maybe even as tall as him. Smooth and charismatic, walking upright like a man who knew exactly who he was and who he wanted to be. Sometimes he even had a mustache. Hawkeye would picture him tearing open the letter with strong hands and then immediately laughing along to Hawkeye’s words, teeth gleaming. 

So what if he liked to picture Dear Friend handsome and smiling and pleased to receive his letter? Hawkeye was a visual person, sue him.

But Dear Friend was also married. And had just welcomed his first child. And just as important, likely uninterested in him in that way. Hawkeye needed to nip these more perilous feelings in the bud before they grew into something a little harder to prune. He loved looking forward to these letters. The two of them could be friends, nothing more, and that would be just fine.

“I still think you need to ask for a picture,” Trapper said over martinis one night, nodding at the half-written letter in Hawkeye’s lap. “For all you know, this guy is seventy-five.”

Hawkeye’s pen stilled mid-sentence. “What would that matter?”

Trapper shrugged, giving him a crooked smile. “If he’s young, maybe he’s got a sister he can set you up with.”

“Aaah,” Hawkeye said with a nod, but the blush on his cheeks spoke to a different thought entirely. He once again conjured up the faceless image of his maybe-tall-maybe-short-maybe-mustachioed-definitely-handsome pen pal. Mister “Almost Done With Residency” had to be somewhat close to Hawkeye’s age, especially after just welcoming his first child. Going to med school and starting a family is not usually something one does on their way to the retirement community.

The thought wouldn’t leave Hawkeye alone, however. And once Hawkeye’s mind grabbed hold of a thought, getting it to go away was like trying to rip a chew toy out of a rottweiler’s mouth. Could he ask for a picture? That seemed like a blatant disregard for the rules of their correspondence. Then again, he was never really one for rules. And besides, they’ve been talking for months now. Did they really need to keep up the pretense of the pen pal service now that they were actually friends?

Later that night after several rounds of surgery, Hawkeye laid in his cot wide awake. He should have been exhausted. His hands were screaming from being clenched around a scalpel, and tonight his back and shoulders were protesting just as much. But his mind kept drifting back to Dear Friend. He pulled the latest letter out of his jacket chest pocket – he had been called to surgery shortly after receiving it and shoved it there without thinking. That’s why it was there. No other reason – and unfolded it.

Frank and Trapper were already asleep, their soft snores filling their tent and mingling with the nightly sounds of nature. Quietly, Hawkeye flicked on his flashlight and began to read:

-------------------------------------------

Hawkeye,

I keep thinking about that story you told me, the one about you and your father camping in Vermont all those years ago. The two of you seem so close, and truthfully I’m a little envious. My father was the type of man to loom over you. He was more of an… idea… than an actual human being that was once a child, too, you know? We probably haven't said more than two words to each other in about ten years. I think if we ever tried camping together, we'd both start praying for a bear attack just to break the tension.

I think I always felt as though I was falling short of his expectations. It was like he had this crystal clear idea in his head of what the perfect son would look like – how he would talk, how he would dress, what job he would have. Who he would marry.

And even though I followed every single rule, checked every single box on his “Perfect Offspring” checklist, I never seemed to measure up. Sometimes I wonder if there is something fundamentally wrong with me - something written into my DNA, like a blight that my father could see with every one of his discerning glares. Maybe I was never going to meet his expectations because in his eyes I was already genetically predisposed not to.

Maybe he was right about that.

But then I look down at my daughter, barely a month old and already the most important thing in my life. I know that I would move mountains for her. She could tell me to drink the ocean and I’d ask her to pick me out a straw. I don’t want her to grow up striving for my approval, feeling like she’s never going to get it. At the moment she can do little more than cry, eat, and spit it all back up and yet already she has blown every expectation of mine out of the water. I love her more than anything I have ever loved before, and it is the easiest thing in the world to do. I look at the relationship you have with your father – the unconditional love, the respect – and I know that is the type of relationship I want to have with her. The type that everyone should get to have with their parents.

If I can be honest (and if you can’t trust a total stranger you basically forced into friendship, who can you trust?) I’ve never had that kind of a connection with anyone. Not my parents, not my friends, not even with my wife. I think there’s always going to be a part of me that is trying to check everyone’s boxes with a pen that’s running out of ink.

Anyway, enough of my moping. You deal with enough doom and gloom for the both of us. Maybe even the whole world.

Thank you for the masterful drawing of your corporal. I’d say I don’t believe you, but given the stories you’ve been telling me about your unit, I’ll believe just about anything. Next time you see him, you’ll have to tell him that my wife has a dress just like that, but she suggests wearing white pumps instead. Those pink ones in your drawing clash with the pattern.

As for our game, Knight to E4. I hope your queen is shaking in her royal boots.

Regards,

Your Dear Friend

-------------------------------------------

Hawkeye dropped the letter to his chest, his fingers drumming lightly on the paper in rhythm with his fluttering heart. Dear Friend had never been that candid before, and the idea that this man – this funny, intelligent, giant-hearted man – felt so alone and so unloved struck something deep. Here Hawkeye was, thousands of miles from everyone he ever knew and loved before the war, and his friend was feeling just as lonely right at home, surrounded by the people he cared about.

For not the first time, Hawkeye wanted to wake Trapper and open up to him about his friend. He needed help untangling all these painful feelings taking root in his chest. Trapper was a good guy, and could give just as well as he could take when it came to Hawkeye's flirting. He probably already made some assumptions of his own about just how real their back and forth could be. He'd be a good ear.

But no, Hawkeye hadn’t told him because he liked keeping his Dear Friend to himself. The guy wasn’t a secret, per se, at least not to Trapper and Radar – who had definitely snuck a peek or two before mail call, the fink. But a selfish part of Hawkeye didn’t want to share him, and especially with how personal the last few letters had been, didn’t want to betray his friend's fragile trust.

What he really wanted was for his friend to be here. Not here here, ripped from his home and forcibly plopped into a warzone. But here, with Hawkeye, sitting across a table from him instead of across an ocean. He wanted to share a drink with him, to play a game of chess in real time instead of each turn lasting several weeks. 

They were friends now, good friends. Surely they could drop the anonymity? Because what if the war ended? They weren’t just going to stop being friends. At least, Hawkeye hoped they wouldn’t. He didn't want his Dear Friend to be another casualty of the war.

Maybe Trapper was right. Maybe he could just ask for a photo. What was a photo, anyway? Just a piece of paper with some ink on it, no different than all the letters they’ve been sending back and forth. They say a picture’s worth a thousand words. A photo would save Dear Friend some stationery, at least.

Hawkeye put his flashlight between his teeth, grabbed his paper and pen, and began to write.

-------------------------------------------

Dear Friend,

I think it’s incredible how you already care so much for your daughter, not that it comes as any surprise. But it makes sense you’d be worried about your role in raising her, given the way you grew up.

I think all of our parents screw us up in their own ways, even the so-called “good” ones. Each generation swears it’s going to fix the mistakes of the one before it, to become better role models than the questionable ones they grew up with. It’s a bit of a comfort, if you ask me, that no matter what, we as a species are always improving. This generation is better than the last, and the next will be better than us, and so on and so forth until one day we finally evolve into a human race so perfect we decide to stop procreating entirely.

Why mess with perfection?

If I could attempt to ease your troubled mind, I don’t think it’s possible for you to have the same relationship with your daughter as you had with your old man. You were waxing rhapsodic about her to a total stranger before she even sucked in her first tiny lungful of air. No one will ever or could ever give her as much love as you already do. She’s lucky to have you.

And for what it’s worth, in my humble, medical opinion, your father must be the one with a screw loose if he can’t realize what a great man he raised. Loyal, compassionate, kind, caring...You check all the boxes for me, pal.

Forgive me if this is too forward, but subtlety has never been my strong suit. I think it’s time we stop being so anonymous with each other. I’d love to see a photo of the guy single-handedly keeping the cobwebs from collecting in my mailbox. Or maybe even your real name? I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.

Queen to C6. Her boots are doing just fine.

Hawkeye

-------------------------------------------

You check all the boxes for me, pal. 

Hawkeye ground his teeth together as he read over the letter several times, his heart pounding so heavily he could see his pulse in his wrist. He had the tendency to wear his heart on his sleeve, but even this was a little bold. Part of him wanted to cross out the words, say something a little less earnest, but soaking the paper in ink to cover up his declaration would be just as damning. He couldn’t take it back now.

But this was good, right? The way they’ve been talking, how close they’d gotten over the last few months, it was time for them to become more three-dimensional to each other. Right? Without Dear Friend and Trapper to keep his anxious mind company, Hawkeye surely would have lost all of his marbles by now. He was allowed to want them close. Trapper was only a few feet away, a welcomed port in this hellish storm. Hawkeye could admit to Dear Friend that he’d become just as important a part of Hawkeye’s life. And Hawkeye could ask for a little bit of transparency in return. Tit for tat, so to speak.

Hawkeye tucked the letter under his pillow and clicked off the flashlight, deciding to literally sleep on it. The next morning, he stuffed the letter in an envelope, stormed out of the Swamp, and shoved it into Radar’s hands before the kid even had his glasses on. He didn’t want a moment to overthink it. Message sent. Done. Finito.

Besides, even if Dear Friend didn’t want to send a photo, or tell Hawkeye his real name, it didn’t mean they couldn’t still be friends. Maybe the guy just needed someone like Hawkeye to vent to. It obviously took him a lot to open up to people, each moment of sincerity buried under line after line of practiced neutrality. Hawkeye could be that friendly ear – or eyes, as it were. An interactive diary-slash-therapist that whooped his ass at chess from thousands of miles away and made him laugh with stories from the 4077. Yeah, he could be that. That could be enough.

He spent the day in post-op, and by the end of his shift, he was feeling good about his decision.

Life at camp continued. There was more fighting, more wounded, more desperate attempts to cling to hope. Klinger got married, and made a beautiful bride. Hawkeye performed a circumcision, Trapper almost got sent home, then stayed, then there was an elaborate ploy to get BBQ ribs. The camp got bombed, and Hawkeye got put on a bastardized form of house arrest.

Life at camp continued.

But no more letters from Dear Friend ever arrived.

Chapter Text

BJ tugged on his collar, giving his neck a brief respite from its regulation noose. Who the hell decided to make the Class A uniforms out of wool? Sweat was beginning to pool on his lower back, and a steady stream was trailing from his hairline down his neck. He missed home already, his mind conjuring images of Erin’s little kiddie pool on the front lawn, her tiny hands playfully splashing cool, refreshing water onto the grass.

Had it really already been over a month since he last saw her? How much more time was going to pass before he could hold her in his arms again? Would he even be able to? Or will time have robbed BJ of those precious years when a child still begged to be held?

He blinked back the prickling behind his eyes. He would cry for Erin, but he would not do that here, not now.

He let go of his collar and looked around the small office he found himself in. He'd seen so many in the last few weeks, all similar to each other save for a few personal effects to give the illusion of individualism and comfort. The walls of this building looked thin, quickly assembled. BJ tried to imagine what this village must have looked like before the war moved in. He pictured much more green, but a different shade. Verdant. More alive.

He smiled pleasantly at Colonel Winston, who was sitting at the desk across from him. This was a man who had clearly been in the war a long time. There was an ease in his posture that spoke of years of familiarity to this kind of life, decades of khaki and paperwork beneath his belt. BJ’s shirt collar suddenly felt tight again.

He rocked back lightly on his heels as the Colonel looked over his file. He wondered what the man was learning about him from just a few lines of ink on the paper. To think his entire self, every documented fact about his life, was contained on those few pages.

Then again, one could learn a lot about someone from just a few lines of ink on paper. BJ’s fingers itched for a pen, flexing at his side.

“Nervous, son?” Winston asked, his eyes lifting over his glasses.

“Oh, sure,” BJ said with a weak chuckle, “who wouldn't be?”

“I'm sure you'll do just fine. The war could use some more upstanding citizens such as yourself.”

BJ smiled politely again, but the warmth wasn't there. “I'll try not to slouch.”

Colonel Winston nodded. “Well, Captain Hunnicut, it looks like you’ll be headed to the 4077 MASH. Good bunch of doctors there. You’ll be in good hands. They should be sending someone—”

“Corporal Radar O’Reilly here to pick up a Captain Hunnicut,” came a high, unsteady voice from behind. BJ jumped. He hadn’t heard anyone come in.

“—to pick you up.”

BJ looked down at the source of the noise, and his breath caught. The kid couldn’t be much more than eighteen. 

“Radar?” BJ asked. “Is that a family name?”

“Oh, no sir,” Radar responded with a bashful chuckle. “That’s just what they all call me. If you’ll follow me, I’ll take you to Captain Pierce. You’ll be working with him the most. He’s just off saying bye to a friend.”

BJ nodded and gave the Colonel a salute, just as he was trained to do. He then grabbed his bag and held a hand out towards the door.

“Lead the way, Radar.”

They stepped out of the building and back into the scorching sun, unfamiliar smells and sounds accosting BJ's senses. His mind was spinning as Radar walked them along the outside of the building. Just twelve hours ago he was in Tokyo, his first time ever visiting a country other than his own. Before that he was in Texas. And only a few weeks before that he was home, sitting next to his wife on their second-hand couch with their daughter cooing happily on his lap. 

He hadn't even gotten to say goodbye to everyone, the days before getting shipped out a blur of crying and yelling and fear. So much fear. He’d barely had his presence of mind those last few days stateside, his brain too busy conjuring up images of what his life would be like here – some sick form of self-preservation that prevented him from enjoying what little time he had left. 

But it wasn’t just his family he’d neglected, at the end. A letter sat heavily in his suitcase, tattered, read and re-read – and unanswered. His chest tightened, and he pushed it away from his thoughts. He turned his attention to Radar, who was leading them on their third lap around the camp in futile search of Captain Pierce, the look of consternation on his face deepening with each round.

“So, Radar,” BJ said, trying to break some of his tension, “This captain, what’s he like?”

Radar's face brightened instantly. “Oh, he’s a real good guy. A lot of us really look up to him. You’ll like him.”

BJ hoped so. He could use a friend around here, someone to make this whole thing seem a little less terrifying. He already felt so alone. And now he didn't have Peg, Erin. 

His friend.

BJ’s fingers curled around an imaginary pen again. Maybe he'd finally be able to respond to his letter when he got to the 4077. Or maybe he’d chicken out. Again. Both options seemed equally likely.

On their fourth lap around the compound, he and Radar rounded the corner of the main office to find a tall man pacing back and forth and muttering to himself – someone new in the repeated sea of faces. Radar squeaked out a tiny noise of triumph and began walking straight towards him. This must be the elusive Captain.

BJ studied him as they got closer. The man looked older than Radar but still young, maybe just a few years ahead of BJ, with a dusting of silver in his hair that looked distinguished, not aged. His shoulders were hunched, and he moved with a frazzled air, like a swarm of bees were piloting the lanky body from place to place – thoughts moving too quickly for the rest of him to keep up. BJ got the sense that this man carried a lot of the war with him at all times.

He and Radar caught up to him, but he barely glanced their way, still grumbling to himself.

“Captain Pierce?” Radar yelled over the continued muttering. “Captain Pierce! Sir, Captain Hunnicut.”

Captain Pierce didn’t seem to be listening. “I missed Trapper by ten minutes. Ten lousy minutes!” he exclaimed, voice rising and causing a few passerbys to look their way. “Can you believe that?”

“You couldn’t have droven any faster,” Radar said with a shrug.

Pierce ran a hand through his hair, obviously distraught. A burning sense of understanding flooded BJ’s veins. He knew exactly what it felt like to leave the people you care about behind. He had never considered that people were ripped away from here, too – that he may one day be the one feeling that loss, even so far from home.

Whatever happened, whoever this Trapper guy was, he clearly meant a lot to the Captain. BJ offered to help, but Pierce waved him off. And really, what could he do, anyway?

What could any of them do?

They were about to drive home – home. The thought made BJ’s stomach churn. He didn’t want this place to ever feel like home – when they realized that there wasn’t anything to drive home in. There was a big empty space where their Jeep should have been, an almost poetic metaphor for the theme of the day. Poor Radar was in a tizzy,  already planning his future execution at the loss.

“Things always this calm around here?” BJ asked Captain Pierce, trying to ease some of the tension.

“It’s the only war in town,” he responded with a shrug.

Captain Pierce turned to Radar, putting his hands on his shoulders to try to calm him down.

“Radar. Radar! Radar. If you can keep your head while all about you are losing theirs… you probably haven’t checked your answering service.”

“Rudyard Kipling,” BJ offered with a wry grin. He couldn’t help it, something about Pierce’s energy made him want to play along, to feed into the electric current rolling off the Captain in waves. Anything, if it helped the situation.

Pierce turned and finally looked at him for the first time, his eyes bright and assessing. BJ realized with a strange sort of awareness that they were blue. 

“Good,” Pierce said with an approving grin. He turned back to Radar and nodded his head back towards BJ. “Give that man a lady in the balcony.”

BJ smirked, listening quietly as Radar continued to fret. But eventually he tried to put the kid out of his misery, holding up a hand. He still had no clue what they were supposed to do now that they didn’t have their ride, and as much as he would love to postpone his new homecoming, they needed a plan.

“Pierce, I’m just a little confused.”

“Hawkeye,” Pierce corrected with a curt nod, those blue eyes squinting in the sunlight.

Once, when he was a boy, BJ had been riding his bike in the vast woods behind his grandparents’ house in Pennsylvania. He wasn’t very familiar with those woods, blindly following trails made by nothing more than nature’s hand, taking turns and shortcuts with the confidence of a child who knew somehow, he’d find his way home again.

The woods eventually broke into a large mining quarry, something BJ had never experienced in his suburban California town. Sparked with curiosity and excitement, BJ tore towards the new landscape – only for his tire to immediately catch on one of the many jagged rocks, the uneven terrain causing his bike to wobble and buck before ultimately throwing him off, tumbling onto the painful, graveled path.

That ground had felt steadier than the earth currently crumbling beneath BJ’s feet.

“Hawkeye?!” he croaked.

Pierce gave BJ a strange look. “Yeah, my parents were birders. Imagine their disappointment when I hatched out of their egg.” He shook his head. “Don’t let the confusion throw you, Captain.”

“B-BJ,” he said shakily, forcing his mouth and vocal chords to cooperate as best they could, despite the wildfire happening in his brain. He clutched his suitcase closer to his body, instantly worried that ten-ton piece of paper folded neatly at the bottom would burn a hole right through the fabric and drop damningly at their feet.

Hawkeye – unbothered, unfazed, completely moored – simply nodded. “One of the first things you learn here, BJ, is that insanity is no worse than the common cold.” He skimmed his eyes up and down BJ’s frame, appraising, and BJ felt his face heat in a way that had nothing to do with the weather.

“Look at you! The eminent Captain Hunnicut, fresh from the US of A, looking like he already got the wind knocked out of him. And he hasn’t even seen his living quarters yet! Let’s get the man a drink, Radar.”

Radar merely squeaked in response, then Captain Pierce – Hawkeye! – led the two of them into the officer’s club. Hawkeye was still trying to calm Radar down, there was something about a promotion, a pulling of brass off of BJ’s shoulder, but he could barely register anything over the roaring in his ears.

Hawkeye. His pen pal, his… God. BJ didn’t have the word. Hawkeye had been a friendly phantom sending kindness and kinship solely through ink on a page, and now the two of them were standing so close that their elbows were brushing together. Hawkeye looked right through him as if they were strangers, because in his eyes, that’s all they were. BJ felt a wave of nausea crash through him as another bead of sweat traveled down his brow. Maybe he really did need a drink.

Peggy had insisted he join the pen pal service as a way to get him out of her hair. It was a chance for BJ to talk to someone that was actually seeing the war first-hand, instead of trying to scrounge information from the newspapers and radio like an anxious raccoon. He even agreed that it could be fun – a simple correspondence that would likely fizzle out after the first couple of letters but that would ultimately provide a small, pleasant diversion for both him and whomever they chose to pair him with. Easy. Harmless.

BJ had certainly never expected Hawkeye.

But from his first response, BJ had been hooked. Who was this soldier whose letters flowed on the page with a humorous yet melodic rhythm? He kept imagining the voice that would say those words to him, picturing the two of them talking over a beer or maybe some cigars, sitting right next to each other instead of a world apart. He wanted to hear every story, whether it be about life at camp or his family or his childhood or, hell, something he just made up – anything as long as that swooping handwriting kept showing up in his mailbox every few weeks.

When Hawkeye had finally revealed his name… BJ nearly whooped. He read that achingly short letter over and over again, memorizing the way the ink saturated the page. What had been the catalyst for Hawkeye’s trust? Did something happen at his unit? Had BJ said something to make him open up? BJ had no idea, but he did know that he wasn’t going to squander it. 

So he began opening up, too, allowing for tiny bits of himself to bleed through the cracks – cracks that he normally kept sealed with Herculean effort. But Hawkeye kept diligently chipping away at them, always responding with kindness and understanding. For the first time in BJ’s life, he felt like he was truly seen. Hawkeye became the only person that made him feel a little less adrift in a world that was carrying him along on whatever current it pleased.

But then there was that final letter. BJ had meant to respond, really, but something about it made his hand hover over the page. Asking for a photo… BJ had instantly broken out into a cold sweat when he read that request. There was a safety in their correspondence – anonymous but deeply personal, with no risk of the real world stepping in to complicate matters. A photo would change things. A photo would make his phantom…solid.

Something he would want to touch.

And then there was Hawkeye’s line, “You check all the boxes for me, pal.” BJ’s heart jolted, a burst of excitement that sizzled all the way to his palms, his finger tips. It was a line that held promise, maybe even a hint of a deeper affection that BJ dared not hope to name, mirroring a growing affection of his own that he had been diligently trying to ignore. 

Every time he had reached for a pen, he could feel a tidal wave of words threatening to pour out – confessions a little too raw, a little too dangerous to share with the army censors. He wanted to tell Hawkeye the exact thing his father sensed in him, a certain proclivity that he had only recently discovered about himself. He loved his wife, he loved Erin, but there was always a part of himself that he kept locked away – until their letters. Hawkeye had dropped some hints of his own, sprinkled throughout the pages in a subtle enough way that only a trained eye that knew what to look for would pick up on them. The thought that Hawkeye, if he found out, would not only still want to be his friend, but maybe also understand, made him want to tell Hawkeye everything, as terrifying as that idea was.

But then BJ got drafted, and he got swept up in such a whirlwind that he was packed and shoved into an airplane so quickly he’d barely had a moment to feel the change in air pressure. His last few days with Erin and Peg felt harried enough as it was. He simply ran out of time to write Hawkeye back, though the fact that the final letter had made it into his bag was certainly indicative of his subconscious priorities.

But now here BJ was, standing less than a foot away from Hawkeye as he spoke a mile a minute to a still-anxious Radar.

BJ cracked a small smile. He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t tried to imagine what Hawkeye looked like through the lines of their letters, a revolving door of different men with all different features. But now that he saw him in person, now that he knew, all of those imagined men vanished from his mind completely. Of course this is what Hawkeye looked like, there was simply no other way for him to be. Tall and skinny and alive, with a hunched posture and graying hair that betrayed the stress and sorrow hidden beneath his quick movements and quicker jokes. His eyes were a striking blue, shining and bright and always one step ahead of the rest of the conversation. Hearing his deep, sure voice, BJ now had a soundtrack to their letters, as though Hawkeye’s thoughts and stories were shared over one of his dry martinis instead of with paper and pen.

“BJ?” Hawkeye asked, eyebrows pinched with concern.

BJ blinked, coming back to himself. “Huh? Oh, I’m sorry. It's just…The… planes,” he lied, pointing up towards the source of the loud sound that had rocked the club only moments before. “They fly pretty low, don’t they?”

“Oh, no. The ground here is just very high,” Hawkeye said with a grin, one that now mentally punctuated all of the handwritten jokes that BJ carried with him in his chest. His heart stuttered before Hawkeye spoke again. “I asked if you were married.”

BJ’s face flushed, humming his confirmation.

“You bring your wife with you?”

“I thought I’d come ahead and check it out first.” He swallowed. “You married?” he asked, already knowing for a fact he was not.

Hawkeye gave him a lecherous grin. “Someone’s going to have to get me pregnant, first.”

A hysterical laugh bubbled out of BJ’s throat, causing half of the officers to turn their way. There was no question. This was Hawkeye, his Hawkeye. No one else would make a joke like that in a room full of brass. He needed to sit down. He needed the room to stop spinning. Hawkeye tilted his head, gaze questioning, but seemed to pick up on BJ’s spiral and led the three of them to an open space at the bar.

They took their seats and ordered. BJ was nursing his bourbon and water when Hawkeye spoke up.

“So what’s your story?” he asked, expression open and curious.

BJ tensed. Hawkeye already knew his story, every line and every detail. He opened his mouth to say as much, but the words caught on the back of his tongue. Hawkeye hadn't heard from Dear Friend in months. He had to be furious with him, even if he didn’t realize the object of his ire was sitting only inches away. But surely he would understand, right? After all, Hawkeye had been drafted, too.

But then the contents of their letters came rushing back to BJ in an overwhelming wave. Hawkeye knew everything – well, almost everything – about BJ. He held BJ’s heart in his hands and didn’t even know it. 

BJ trusted Hawkeye, of course he did. But the thought of being in this new and awful place and relinquishing that kind of control right away gave him pause. Not to mention, his first in-person impression would be admitting to Hawkeye what a coward he'd been, not responding to the letter in the first place.

He just couldn’t do it.

BJ gulped down the rest of his drink, slamming the glass on the bar harder than he meant it to, then did his best approximation of a careless shrug.

“Oh, you know. Same story as a lot of men around here, I suppose. Living quietly and happily, then ripped away from the wife and kid.”

“Fighting for the American dream, they tell us,” Hawkeye said with a nod, still oblivious to BJ’s plight. “Yet here they are doing their level best to tear it up themselves.”

“They oughta start shooting the soldiers themselves, save the Koreans some time.”

“They can start in here,” Hawkeye nodded. “Look at all this brass. That pretty jewelry shines like a beacon, they wouldn’t be able to miss. Oh officers!” Hawkeye called out, waving to the crowd, “Please turn your medals towards the sun to ensure better accuracy!”

“Ah, geez, fellas!” Radar hissed, burying his red face behind his grape Nehi. BJ had nearly forgotten he was there.

“Welcome to Korea, BJ,” Hawkeye said, turning back to him with a pleased glint in his eye. BJ stared back, trying to memorize it as they all clinked their glasses together.

Later, BJ would swear that the rest of his first day in Korea was a blur, horrors dulled by the excess of alcohol poured down his throat and swimming through his veins by the end of it. But in truth, he would remember every terrifying moment of that day for the rest of his life: the woman, nearly blown apart by a mine. The soldiers, some dead before their bodies were even flipped over to be checked. The shelling. Those images, those sounds, were never going to leave him as long as he lived.

And then there was Hawkeye, despite everything, saving lives and still trying to help BJ keep his head above water at the same time.

Loose-limbed and veins still buzzing with liquor, BJ dropped his things in front of the empty cot in the swamp. Distantly, he realized that this cot must have belonged to Hawkeye’s previous tentmate, the one who wanted to adopt the Korean boy. What had Hawkeye said his name was? Trapper?

BJ didn’t know any of the names of Hawkeye’s unit, Hawkeye had only ever divulged his own. It was a testament to his loyalty and trust for the others, that he would share their stories but not their private lives. They weren’t his to share. BJ figured he could repay the same favor. Hawkeye had revealed just as much of himself to BJ, vulnerabilities that BJ sensed he usually kept close to the vest. BJ didn’t need to let his new bunkmate know just how much he knew. Maybe this could be a fresh start for them, a chance to become friends for real this time – no more anonymity, just like Hawkeye asked for.

BJ settled into the cot, his head still foggy but warming to his plan. He curled his fingers around the thick, unfamiliar blanket and pulled it up under his chin, the weight and coverage comforting despite the day’s lingering heat.

He turned his gaze to Hawkeye’s cot, only to find those bright blue eyes staring right back at him, expression unreadable.

“I keep looking over there and expecting to see him,” Hawkeye said, not totally drunk anymore, but his words soft around the edges.

BJ nodded in understanding, unsure of how else to respond.

“So how was your first day at school, BJ?” Hawkeye asked, the expression fading and his eyes slipping shut.

BJ propped himself up on his elbow, cradling his head in his hand. “Well. I feel like I failed a test I could in no way prepare for. The hours are terrible and there’s no recess. But the other kids seem pretty nice.” He studied Hawkeye’s face, a stranger in some ways, and his closest friend in others. The contradiction suited him. Hawkeye was a puzzle BJ had already partially figured out, and he was eager to figure out the rest. “I think I’m going to like them a lot.”

“Will you two chatty Cathy’s pipe down?!” Frank Burns bellowed from his side of the tent. “Some of us are trying to sleep!”

“Well, maybe not all of them,” BJ amended.

The corner of Hawkeye’s mouth quirked upward. “Don’t worry, we’ll put a tack on his chair before the bell rings tomorrow,” he said lazily, his eyes still shut. BJ snickered.

“Knock it off!”

Hawkeye cracked his eyes open just long enough to shoot BJ a wink before leaning over to turn off his lamp. He then turned to his side, already starting to fall asleep after the harrowing day they had.

BJ flipped onto his back, staring up at the roof of the tent flapping in the wind.

The air here was different. The sounds, the smells. BJ was so far away from everyone and everything he ever knew.

But he did know Hawkeye. And as long as his own Dear Friend was here, BJ knew he’d never really be alone.

Chapter Text

“Luck be a lady tonight! Luck be a lady tonight! Luck, if you’ve ever been a lady to begin with, luck be a lady tonight!” Hawkeye’s voice drifted above the operating tables, a crooning baritone harmonizing with the clink-clink of medical instruments.

“Captain Pierce!” Frank yelled, “This is an operating room, not a cabaret!”

Hawkeye clicked his tongue, throwing a sponge into the metal dish next to him. “Come now, Frank, I always thought I was destined for the stage. But then they put this scalpel in my hands and it turns out I’m just too darn good at cutting along the dotted lines.”

Frank snorted, tossing a few sponges to the floor. “Please. You’d have to have some talent for that kind of work.”

Hawkeye gave him an obvious pout, visible even from behind his mask. “Now that isn’t fair.”

BJ nodded. “It isn’t nice.”

“A lady wouldn’t wander all OVER the room, and blow on some other guy’s DICE!”

“Colonel!” Frank wailed over Hawkeye’s continued vibrato.

“Let’s keep the party polite, boys,” Colonel Potter said flatly.

“Ooh, very nice,” Hawkeye approved. Even Margaret’s eyes were crinkled in silent laughter, though still focused on the patient.

BJ hummed along as he worked on a soldier with a simple leg wound. Not too much blood loss and thankfully all of the important nerves had been avoided. Through-and-through. It was the closest thing to good news one could have in this place, and he could do this surgery in his sleep. Probably had, a couple of times. Hawkeye was the one with the troublesome patient. Multiple chest wounds, massive loss of blood and a thready BP. That had to account for all of the singing. Hawkeye was always more vocal in the OR when he was dealing with a tough case. Jokes, songs, limericks – anything to keep his mind from spiraling into the fear.

BJ admired that kind of spirit. Here was Hawkeye, always trying to lighten the load for everyone else. The thought made BJ’s heart gallop in his chest. Hawkeye’d always been doing that for BJ, from the first handwritten response landing in his mailbox, to the horrifying first day in Kimpo, to now in the O.R., all these months later.

“Alright Kellye,” BJ said, placing his scalpel back on the tray, “he’s ready to close.”

Kellye nodded and was about to say something when Margaret’s voice cut through the O.R.

“You’re losing him, doctor!”

“Beej.”

Hawkeye’s voice was cold and pleading. BJ was peeling off his gloves and heading over to his station before that single syllable had fully slipped out. He held out his hands as another nurse put a fresh pair on him.

Hawkeye’s instruments were moving quickly. He didn’t look up at BJ when he said, “I need you to hold this steady while I try to control the bleeding.”

“Got it.”

BJ’s effortlessly slipped into the space where Hawkeye had been. They worked in perfect sync, moving around each other like a dance – push, pull, step, sway. But the kid was fading fast, and the rest of the room had fallen silent as they listened for their progress.

Margaret looked up at Hawkeye. “Doctor—”

“Give me a minute!”

Hawkeye’s hands were fast, sure and steady, but the patient’s pressure was still dropping rapidly. Chest open, BJ could see the kid’s heart barely pulsing with each labored beat, the time between each one growing longer and longer. Several tense moments passed before Margaret spoke softly.

“I have no pulse, Doctor. He’s gone.”

Hawkeye let out a frustrated yell, throwing his tools on the ground. The O.R. remained silent, the only sounds the wet clinking of Colonel Potter and Frank’s instruments as they continued on their own patients. Theirs were still fighting, and they couldn’t stop working just because everyone’s morale had died with that patient.

“Snake eyes,” Hawkeye whispered. He turned away from the table, peeling off his gloves and mask as he stormed out of the O.R.

“BJ…” Potter said.

“Already going,” BJ responded, pulling off his own gloves and tossing them in the trash as he left the room.

BJ found Hawkeye sitting on the bench, his head tipped back and eyes closed. BJ sat down next to him and pulled off his mask, exhaling slowly.

“You did everything you could,” he said gently.

Hawkeye tipped his head forward slightly, then thunked it back on the wall behind him.

“Yeah, everything except save him.”

BJ clenched his hand into a fist to avoid reaching out. “You weren’t the one that put him on that table, Hawk. He lasted those few minutes longer because of you.”

He opened his eyes and turned towards BJ. “And you.”

BJ’s heart raced at the sudden intensity of his gaze. Hawkeye’s sporadic moments of sincerity knocked the wind out of him sometimes. BJ shook off the feeling and nudged Hawkeye’s shoulder. “I have a hell of a dance partner.”

Hawkeye huffed. “Right.”

“Doctors aren’t gods, Hawkeye. We might try to save the whole world ourselves, but we can’t have the gall to act surprised when we can’t. We’re human. We can only do our best.”

“Now you sound just like—” Hawkeye’s face darkened even more and he tipped his head back again. “Nevermind. Just an old friend.” A pause. This time, quieter, “A dear friend.”

A cold wave washed through BJ. He was so exhausted that he had completely forgotten saying that to Hawkeye before. More importantly, he forgot that it had originally been written down.

BJ still hadn’t told Hawkeye that he was Dear Friend, though it wasn’t for lack of trying. There were plenty of opportunities to finally come clean – quiet moments after long shifts in the O.R., sharing a meal in the mess, or hunched over a chess board playing games just like they used to through the mail. But each time he tried, his tongue got caught in his throat, the words lodging themselves behind his teeth. BJ never claimed to be the bravest person in Korea, and most of the 4077 would agree that showing some cowardice meant that you hadn’t completely lost your marbles yet.

But now? It had been so long that he felt like he could never tell Hawkeye the truth. How does one casually bring up the fact that, “Oh, yeah, remember that old pen pal you used to have? The one that knows all your secrets and even offered up a few of his own? That was me! Go figure!” The obvious answer was that one didn’t.

Plus, a part of him thought for sure that Hawkeye would’ve figured it out for himself by now, maybe even recognized BJ’s handwriting from filling out charts every day. Then again, after the initial “chicken scratch” comment, BJ had made a steady effort on improving his penmanship, at least for his letters to Hawkeye. That had flown out the window the second he got to Korea, the sheer multitude of patients leaving no time for aesthetically pleasing charts.

The only person who knew the full truth was Peg, who had been over the moon to find out that BJ wasn’t alone out here. That Hawkeye wasn’t alone. She had been insisting that he tell Hawkeye the truth, dropping some flying-mallet level hints at the end of each and every one of her letters. Hints that BJ had started fully ignoring in his responses.

She meant well, but BJ was pretty sure Peg was missing one key bit of information: his real feelings for Hawkeye. Not the care and consideration one usually carried for a close friend, but something deeper. Much more dangerous. A burning beneath BJ’s ribs that warmed him as much as it scalded him. BJ didn’t know if Peggy would be as supportive if she knew how her husband’s heart raced every time he and his old pen pal so much as looked at each other across a crowded O.R.

The problem was that Hawkeye was simply becoming too important. On the outside, BJ might always seem pleasant and calm, but his insides were constantly raging – fighting against the war, his circumstances, the kids dying on his table every other day, everything. The only thing that leveled him out – the only thing that had since the moment he got here – was Hawkeye. The risk of losing him over this secret was far too great. He might never have Hawkeye as intimately as the hidden parts of his soul wanted, but having him as his friend was better than not having him at all.

And as far as BJ could tell, Hawkeye didn’t miss his Dear Friend. Hawkeye had never once mentioned him before this moment, never once seemed expectant on mail day, hoping for a letter that would never come. BJ tried not to let that hurt his feelings, seeing as they spent every day together. That they were indeed friends in real life now. But maybe their letters really had been nothing more than a diversion for him back then.

Hawkeye, for his part, didn’t seem to notice BJ’s slip. BJ clasped a hand on his knee and gave it a quick squeeze before letting go, his fingers tingling where they had touched him. “Come on, let’s finish up in there. The last couple kids are just sporting superficial wounds. Then we’ll head back to the swamp and drown the memories in gin.”

Hawkeye cracked his eyes open, flicking his gaze over to BJ. His expression softened the tiniest bit.

“We're going to need a lot of gin.”

“I’m a generous pour,” BJ said with a smile, and that was enough to bring Hawkeye back to his usual self.

After a few more quiet seconds, Hawkeye finally stood back up. They all finished their shift in the O.R., this time with no musical accompaniment. As soon as they scrubbed out and headed to the swamp, BJ made good on his promise, handing Hawkeye a glass filled to the brim before he’d even fully changed out of his scrubs. They were several martinis in, the day seemingly buried in the past, when Hawkeye spoke up, his eyes focused on his glass.

“Luck isn’t a lady,” he murmured, swirling the last dregs of liquid at the bottom, “She’s a thing – a creature with claws and teeth and an insatiable appetite for those too young to be playing with her.”

BJ couldn’t argue with that. He took a fortifying sip of his drink, watching Hawkeye over the rim of his glass.

Hawkeye’s eyes flitted over to his footlocker and he let out a huff of sad laughter, leaning back in his chair.

“Y’know, I thought I knew her, once,” he said. “Lady Luck.”

BJ nodded. “She’s a frequent guest at our card games.”

“No, no, no,” Hawkeye said, taking another sip, “I mean I thought I understood her. See, she and I, we had an agreement. She can hand me all the bad luck in the world – lovers leaving me, getting drafted, the deluge of wounded every day – so long as I can keep doing my job well enough to save my patients and go home in one piece at the end of it all.”

BJ nodded but kept quiet. He’d learned to let Hawkeye keep speaking when he got like this. It helped him to process the jeep’s worth of emotions he carried with him all day, verbally unloading it all until his shoulders felt a little less heavy. BJ remembered how his letters used to ramble on for page after page. God, he missed them. He still felt a pang of disappointment when Radar didn’t have one for him at mail call, even though the author was sitting a mere three feet from him, completely unaware of it.

“But then!” Hawkeye continued, arms waving wide. “She decided to throw me a curveball. She saw a random, one-in-a-million opportunity and decided to give it to me. Little old me! Can you believe it? Maybe I had done enough good deeds to fill my celestial punch card.” He took another sip, sucking the liquid through his teeth as his eyes dropped to the ground. “Or maybe she just felt sorry for me.”

BJ chuckled lightly, trying to buoy Hawkeye’s spirits. “What, did you win a contest? A magazine giveaway?”

Hawkeye downed the rest of his drink, plunking the glass on the ground. He was drunk already, a good day and a half stretching between him and his last full meal.

He swayed a little as he leaned over and opened his footlocker, digging around a bit before finally pulling out a very familiar stack of colorful envelopes, all tied together with a bit of twine. BJ’s stomach plummeted, the gin souring and sloshing painfully inside it.

“What is that?” BJ whispered, knowing the answer and still hoping something false and less devastating would fall out of Hawkeye’s mouth instead.

Lady Luck was not with BJ tonight, either.

“Letters,” Hawkeye said. BJ swallowed the heart in his throat. “Dozens of them. You see, she decided to drop this in my lap.” He waved the stack in the air. “A random civilian with great stories and a whip-sharp humor that could match my very own. A total stranger that for some reason listened to my tales of woe and still wrote back to me week after week. My Dear Friend.”

Hawkeye tossed the stack over to BJ, gesturing for him to untie the bundle. BJ’s fingers shook in a way he knew had nothing to do with the alcohol swimming in his veins. He pulled on the twine and shuffled through the envelopes, picking one out at random.

BJ wanted to say that they weren’t all tales of woe, that often Hawkeye’s letters were the brightest spot in his days, especially near the end. He wanted to tell him that he read some of the letters so many times he had them memorized. That even now he returned to those words on some of his worst nights in Korea. But BJ’s mouth was filled with sand.

“You kept all these?” he said instead, tracing his fingers along the indents he put there, from pressing his pen too hard in anticipation, from rushing to get his response out as quickly as possible.

Hawkeye stood, grabbing his glass and refilling it. He swallowed half of it and shook his head. “I’m nothing if not sentimental.”

The letters were handled with such care, each piece of parchment carefully placed back in the enveloped and wrapped up in a neat, unbending stack. Just like the letters he kept from Peg. BJ’s heart skipped, that familiar warmth flowing through him. “But… why?”

“Because!” Hawkeye exclaimed, his gin sloshing over the side of his glass. “For a brief moment I knew that there was someone out there waiting on me. Not my father, who’s equal parts love and concern for his melancholy son, but a person – a real flesh and blood person – that wanted to hear about my day and know that I wasn’t completely losing my mind over here.”

“So what happened?” BJ asked quietly.

Hawkeye stilled. “He stopped. Out of the blue. After months of… It was my own fault, really, I asked for too much, I—” Hawkeye slumped back down in his chair. “It doesn’t matter. The point is, Lady Luck gave me a person like that and then ripped him away from me just as easily. Because she knew, she knew, how attached I’d get. She wanted to remind me that she was still in charge. I mean he was someone I— someone I really—” Hawkeye put his glass back on the ground and dropped his head in his hands. “Fuck,” he whispered.

BJ’s world was shattering, but he felt a sort of manic elation, too. Hawkeye couldn’t be saying… but he was, wasn’t he? All of those moments where BJ had wanted to say something else in his letters, to let Hawkeye know that he felt—

“Hawk...” BJ started, not even knowing exactly what he wanted to say.

Hawkeye waved him off, giving him a sad smile. “Yeah, yeah, I get it. Can’t let the censors hear.”

BJ’s cheeks flushed. What Hawkeye was implying, what he just confirmed, it was…

“No, that’s not it. Hawkeye, come on.”

“Can’t blame me for thinking it,” he said with a shrug. “That’s probably why he stopped writing. I crossed the very clear line we both drew in the sand.”

Guilt clawed at BJ’s chest. He had felt awful about not being able to respond to that final, loaded letter before being drafted. But then he was shoved onto a plane and dropped right in front of Hawkeye on one of the worst days of his entire life. They had became such quick friends, just like the first time. It was easy for BJ to fall into a new routine with him. To replace their many letters with working side-by-side in the O.R., bickering in the mess tent, and long nights drinking and joking together in the swamp.

He never considered that, to Hawkeye, he’d simply disappeared.

BJ was the biggest asshole on the planet. But Hawkeye had never, not once, brought up their letters before! The O.R. today was the first hint Hawkeye had ever given that he even still thought about his Dear Friend. BJ had no idea their correspondence affected him this much. He knew they were friends, of course he did, but he never thought – never dreamed – that this was how Hawkeye felt.

He never let himself think it.

And now what was he supposed to do? He couldn’t just tell him. He couldn’t drop that kind of bomb when Hawkeye was feeling embarrassed and vulnerable. He might be an asshole, but he wasn’t going to add any further insult to that injury. And that was if Hawkeye even believed him!

Maybe BJ couldn’t really be Dear Friend anymore, but he could make sure Hawkeye knew he hadn’t been abandoned. He could make this right. He just had to figure out how.

“I’m so sorry, Hawk,” BJ said, better, more meaningful words failing him. He opened his mouth to try again when Hawkeye held up his hand.

“Nah, forget it. You know how it is. It was probably just too much for him way too fast. I got ahead of myself.”

“Too fast?” BJ shook his head, the room spinning slightly as the gin finally caught up to him. “You shared letters for several months. What makes you think it was too much?”

“Aren’t I always?”

“No.”

Hawkeye shot him a dry look.

BJ sucked in a breath, making a decision before the last dregs of his sobriety could stop him. “Hawkeye, he’ll write you back.”

“Yeah, sure,” Hawkeye said with a snort.

“Look, I’m not just guessing.”

Hawkeye squinted at him. “How can you be so sure?”

BJ’s face flushed under the naked scrutiny, and he allowed himself a little bit of the truth. “Because anyone who would willingly ignore you is an idiot. They’re missing out on the best man I know.”

“Pretty words, Beej,” Hawkeye said, stretching his back like a cat. “I’ll embroider them into a sampler in the morning.” His shirt rode up and BJ sucked in a small gasp as he tore his eyes away. He needed to stop drinking for the night. There was too much new information, too many revelations swimming along the gin current in his brain. He just made a foolish promise to his friend. Best not to let any further actions get him into more trouble.

Hawkeye didn’t say anything else, slowly relaxing until eventually his breathing evened out and his face smoothed out into an expression of calm. BJ watched him for a few moments – his crazy, hotheaded, brilliant, impossibly wonderful friend. To think that Hawkeye felt even a sliver of the affection BJ had been secretly harboring for him all of this time…

The second he was sure Hawkeye was asleep, BJ walked quietly over to Hawkeye’s cot, straightening out the crumpled blanket and pulling it up to Hawkeye’s chest. BJ let his fingers brush lightly down Hawkeye’s arm before pulling away and walking back over to his own bed.

BJ then dropped to his knees and dug under his mattress for his good stationery, stretched his fingers, and began to write.

-----------------------

Hawkeye,

I know it’s been a while

How have you been?

You won’t believe what happened

Do you have any idea how important

I think I might also lo

I am so

Forgive me.