Chapter 1

August 1955

It was five minutes before six when Hawkeye had jolted awake. It’d been a fitful night of sleep, the comfort of the hotel linens (softer than any bed he’d ever slept on) completely lost on him and his ever-malicious circadian rhythm. He sat up, his body creaking in complaint, a little breathless. He would try to go back to sleep, having been up so late, but the day stretched out ahead of him. At this point, his body would not go back.

Hawkeye had struggled with sleep since infancy. Some of his first memories had been him crying, begging to stay up and be a part of his parents’ parties; he wasn’t going to sleep anyway. Past bedtime, he was almost always discovered under the covers, reading a book. Then, he’d become a rock in the morning, impossible to get out of bed. But now, he almost always woke with a start.

He blamed med school. He blamed residency. He didn’t, however, blame early post-op shifts or round-the-clock choppers. This was not due to any army regulation clinging to him. It could all be blamed on the fact that he’d returned home to Crabapple Cove, where he slept in his childhood bedroom and rose each morning with a panic in his chest. Fear that he’d miss the bus. 

He stopped remembering his dreams during that first week he’d returned home. Sometimes, especially when exhaustion seeped into the edges of his vision, he’d worry about waking up in the Swamp, looking over to see BJ snoring in the corner. He didn’t have the words to explain how he felt about that image.

Hawkeye set his feet on the hotel carpet, an attempt to connect to the parts of him that were still asleep. He dragged them across the texture and then pushed off the bed, stumbling over to the window.

He opened the curtains, the light pouring in, and stared out at the Chicago skyline. Skyscrapers rose tall across the downtown area and then came to an abrupt halt along Michigan Avenue. New York had begun to feel claustrophobic, but here, beautiful Lake Michigan glistened, its blue waters stretching out along the horizon line. It reminded him of home. He had a sudden urge to swim.

His mind felt foggy, though the details were starting to come back into focus. He glanced over to his bed, unsurprised by its emptiness but hurt nonetheless. He suddenly felt like being overwhelmingly childish. He wanted to throw a tantrum. He wanted to scream into the pillows. He wanted to run away. But he couldn’t. Where would he run to? Come tomorrow, everyone he loved would be in one room together.

Coffee. That’s what he needed. Eggs, too. Something to clear the lingering fog.

Last night’s shower had left his hair spiked and unruly, leading to fervent digging through a disastrously packed suitcase and an internal debate on whether to shave.

He forwent it, instead focusing on combing his hair into submission with one hand, while the other fumbled around for a decent set of clothes.

Blue jeans were a must, he’d determined. Tomorrow would be dressier; today, he could still pretend like this was a vacation.

Once presentable, Hawkeye escaped his room and headed out into the world, his first stop being directly across the hall.

Shave and a haircut, he knocked on the door.

Shuffling, on the other side. And then, a responding knock. Two bits.

The door opened to reveal his father, beaming a large smile underneath the fluffy white robe he’d tightly wrapped around himself.

“Look at you,” Hawkeye laughed, taking him in. “Pampered as ever.”

“You look nice too, Ben.”

Dad was a few inches shorter than him and shrinking in his growing age, his blue eyes hidden behind thick glasses, his father having horrible eyesight that Hawk didn’t even want to think about possibly inheriting.

“Breakfast?” He asked, his stomach rumbling in punctuation.

“Give me ten,” Dad smiled, already starting to close the door.

“I’ll save you a scone!”

The door shut in his face. He shrugged, brushing it off as he headed a few doors down, off to fetch his usual companion. His fellow early riser. He knocked gently on the hotel room door, standing awkwardly hunched, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

“In a minute!” A shout came from inside.

He tapped his foot rhythmically, vibrating with impatience. He reminded himself that his growing, churning, anxious energy was perfectly natural. Fear was a human response. This fear raced through his body, like a horrible rash. It was the anticipation of his gutted mess of emotions to be put on display, the knowledge that he was going to spend an entire weekend being studied on how well he’d adjusted, for the man he was becoming in the wake of war.

Margaret opened the door, smoothing out her bangs with one hand, the other holding a large hair curler she’d clearly just taken out.

“Breakfast, m’lady?” He bowed a little, doing a twirling gesture with his hand.

“I’ll meet you down there,” she laughed, watching him. She was still in her silk robe, caught in the middle of her careful routine. “I’ve got to finish my eyebrows.”

“Oh Margaret, I think they’re perfect like this,” he insisted, voice going saccharine, fingers interlaced and pulled into his chest. “One sweet and gentle, the other glaring right at me.”

“Don’t make me hit you, Pierce,” she rolled her eyes, closing the door behind her.

Hawkeye sighed and resigned himself to head downstairs alone, hands stuffed back in his pockets.

In the elevator, he’d turned to the operator, complimenting his epaulettes. “You look like a beautiful, fringe lamp.”

The operator stared at him blankly. Tough crowd.

Downstairs, the dining room was quiet, full of a few businessmen sitting at separate tables, tearing into their respective heaping helpings of eggs, sausages, and pancakes. The buffet itself gleamed up ahead, a familiar head of white hair hovering over the bacon.

For a second, he’d hesitated. Maybe he could hide until Margaret came down, following her lead. He could practically feel the electricity in his nerve cells. And he’d begun to feel nauseous. Maybe that was just hunger, though. When did he last eat?

He bit the bullet, marching over to the wide stretch of gas-heated tins arranged in a breakfast buffet, picking up a plate and sneaking behind the shorter man, watching as he piled bacon onto a plate already lopped with a mountain of scrambled eggs. “I’m not sure the missus would approve of this sizable portion of salt-cured meats, Colonel.”

Colonel Potter, in all his glory, whipped his head around, a sour look on his face at having his business butt into, but it melted immediately upon recognition. He smiled, wide. “What Mildred doesn’t know won’t hurt her, Pierce.”

Potter set his mass of breakfast down on the counter, freeing his hands to shake Hawkeye’s, clasping his shoulder with the other.

“It’s good to see you, son,” He insisted, his smile so bright and genuine. It was affirming. Comforting. Hawkeye felt embarrassed to have even hesitated.

“How’ve you been, Colonel?” He asked, politely.

“Enjoying retirement, Pierce,” his grin continued to grow wide. “What about you? Are you still at your father’s practice in Maine?”

He failed to hide his wince.

“No, actually,” Hawk started piling his plate with what’s left of the bacon. “I’ve been traveling. Some time in Boston, then New York. I’ll probably stay in Chicago for a couple days after this.”

“Well, isn’t that grand?” Potter picked his own plate back up, a mountainous feast constructed on the ceramic. He was getting his money’s worth of good food. “You go on and fill your plate,” he insisted. “I’ll find us a seat and you can tell me all about it.”

Once Hawkeye had sufficiently amassed his own large feast on a single plate, the two men sat together at a table in the center of the dining room, catching up over their breakfast. Potter and his wife had also used the reunion as an excuse for travel, having already spent a week in the city.

“We went to this one restaurant, and boy, the food was terrible,” Potter told him.

“I’ll have to check it out,” Hawkeye laughed.

“Well, the food may have sucked, but they had these magicians — they’d walk right up to your table and do all sorts of magic tricks for you.”

“Are you sure they didn’t put anything funny in that food, Colonel?”

“Now I know what you’re thinking, Pierce, and I thought it was horse hockey too for a minute there,” Potter shook his head. “But, son. It was fantastic. One of them gave us a business card of other places they had these magician fellas. We’ve gone all over the city just to see magic!”

“I have a soft spot for card tricks myself, Colonel,” a soft voice piped in from behind, fully freshened for the day ahead.

They looked up, catching the dazzling smile of Margaret Houlihan, her plate already prepped with food.

“Houlihan!” Potter jumped to his feet to greet her. “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes!”

Hawkeye rose as well, offering her his seat.

“It’s good to see you, too, Colonel,” Margaret said, hugging him. Her eyebrows were perfect now. She wore pants tailored stylishly and a collared short-sleeve shirt, her hair pinned back. He felt sloppy, next to her, in his blue jeans and Hawaiian shirt. How else will people recognize me? He’d joked to her as he packed it.

Margaret accepted Hawkeye’s chair, sitting and settling down quickly. “I’ve had a wonderful two years, Colonel, I can’t wait to tell you all about it.”

“What hospital did you end up gracing with your skills?”

She beamed at him, explaining the work she’d been doing at Bellevue. “It’s so large, Colonel. They’ve got a cardiopulmonary laboratory and a heart failure clinic! A woman doctor even runs their chest clinic! It’s been so rewarding to work at such an innovative, well-respected hospital.”

“That’s mighty grand, Margaret.” He set his hand on top of hers, patting it. “You must be who Pierce was visiting in New York, then.”

“Oh yes! I found all these sightseeing brochures and he mapped out all sorts of places for us to go around the city, it was really wonderful.”

Potter shot a look across the table, twisting inside Hawkeye’s stomach. 

He could see the cogs spinning, ideas percolating. He wasn’t sure whether or not he should stop it.

“Mind if I join you?” Someone else cut in. Dad.

He’d arrived at the table, sparing Hawkeye from the Colonel’s eye, his buffet plate stacked high. Hawk furrowed his brow, looking closer at the portions.

“Dad, why are there eight pieces of bacon on your plate?”

He snorted. “C’mon, Ben. I’m not going to be around forever. Let me enjoy life’s simple pleasures.”

“You must be the elder Dr. Pierce,” Potter held out his hand. “You’ve raised a mighty fine surgeon, sir.”

“Please, call me Daniel, Colonel,” Dad shook it.

“Sherman,” he corrected with a smile. “Come sit next to me, old timer.”

Potter and Dad got on like a house fire. In seconds, they were laughing together, clasping one another’s shoulders. It was nice to see.

Next to him, Margaret frowned. She’d been interrupted while bursting with excitement. She’d wanted to tell the Colonel everything, already seeking his approval of her and how her life had panned out.

“Sorry, Margaret,” he apologized on Dad’s behalf. “You know how we Pierces love to steal away attention.”

“You don’t have to remind me,” she rolled her eyes, though there was a hint of a smile underneath them. She cleared her throat, straightened out her disappointment. “Pass me that jam,” she commanded.

He did as he was told, reaching out to the jar, handing it to her. Potter looked across at them again. Hawkeye just smiled.

He leaned up close to her, annoyingly pushing himself into her personal space. “Ready to see everyone?”

She scoffed, rolled her eyes again. “More ready than you are.”

He watched as she lathered jam and butter on one half of a toasted English muffin. His jaw dropped, mouth hung open like a stray dog. Begging. Margaret caught his eye, as if expecting it, and made up the other half of the pastry, setting it on his plate without another word.

This had been their routine the last few weeks, back in her one-bedroom apartment in New York. The two of them fell into step together. Maternal, fraternal, sororal. Quipping back and forth. Hawkeye’s limbs outstretched on a lumpy futon. Our little slumber party, he’d called it.

Hawkeye gratefully accepted the food, tearing into it, animalistic. He made sure to thank her, though it was mid-bite and unintelligible to all but his father across the table.

Of course, this had to be the moment Peggy Hunnicutt arrived in the dining room, announced by Margaret’s brightening, waving her over to the table with a “Peg!”

Hawk nearly choked on the muffin compacted in his mouth, pounding his chest to get the pieces down. He turned in his chair as Peg walked up to them, holding hands with her daughter. He smiled, closed-mouthed, with crumbs and jam all over his lips.

“Good morning, everyone,” Peg smiled politely at the group. She looked refreshed, no longer held under the weight of yesterday’s travel. She was noticeably cheerier, her hair fully coiffed. Though Erin seemed to still be blinking away at sleep, rubbing at her eyes. Static clung to her hair.

“Where’s BJ?” Margaret looked out behind her. Hawkeye swallowed the rest of his treat and quickly filled himself with coffee, suddenly thirsty and desperate to do something with his hands.

“Oh, he stayed up way too late. Even though I reminded him that the clock’s two hours ahead,” she playfully complained. “It’s early in the morning back in Mill Valley, so I just figured it’d be best to let him sleep in.” Her smile didn’t break for a second.

Hawkeye finished his gulp of coffee, cutting in to translate. “She knows not to wake the beast.”

Peg laughed, a hand clutching her chest. “Well, it’s already hard enough to keep this little miss from being cranky,” she looked down at her daughter. “Don’t need to deal with that from Daddy, too. Right, Erin?”

“Right,” little Erin nodded in agreement. It pulled a pleased little laugh out of Hawkeye that a certain expression he’d seen a million times was now projected on a sweet little face.

“Why don’t you go and grab your breakfast?” Margaret suggested to her, gesturing towards the buffet. “Hawkeye and I certainly can entertain Erin for a few minutes.”

“Oh, would you? It’s awful to do these things with only one hand.”

“It’s not a problem at all,” Margaret insisted. “I love children.”

“And if Margaret is to be believed, I myself am a very large child,” Hawkeye added, just to be included.

Peg kissed Erin on the forehead and explained to her where she was going, that she would just be across the room. That Mommy’s friends would keep her company until she came back. Erin nodded with understanding, with an “okay, Mommy,” and turned her attention to Hawkeye and Margaret, her eyes wide.

Hawkeye smiled at her, trying to block out any stray, unwanted thoughts of little bodies full of shrapnel, broken limbs, and all sorts of illnesses. He’d gotten away with steering clear of most pediatric cases back in Crabapple Cove, given his father ran the clinic. He was still nervous, especially with the polio vaccinations. He couldn’t stand to hear little kids cry. Dad still made him perform minor check-ups, though. Exposure therapy, his father called it. Hawkeye asked him to stop sending Sidney letters.

Erin was a perfectly healthy four-year-old from what Hawkeye could see. He faced her, building up his performance.

“What do you think of the hotel?” He asked.

“It’s all bigggg rooms,” she told him with emphasis. Her sense of humor was developing rapidly.

“Here, sweetheart,” Margaret cooed. “Let me brush your hair.” She guided Erin over, pulling a hairbrush out of her purse.

“Do you live here?” Erin asked her.

“I live in New York City,” Margaret answered, voice soft as she carefully turned the little girl around, gaining access to the back of her head, Erin facing Hawkeye as they talked.

“I live in Maine,” Hawk told her, landing on the least complicated answer.

“My daddy went there,” Erin gasped, exaggerated hands brought up to cover her mouth. “To see the birdies.”

“To see the birdies?” He laughed, catching Margaret’s eye. “Did he see any Hawks?”

“Yup,” she nodded, the head shaking interrupting Margaret’s careful work.

Close to her like this, Hawkeye noticed her better. Eyes green like her mother’s, her smile big and toothy like her father’s.

Margaret carefully pulled Erin back into place, humming softly as she worked on her hair. With a round of twenty questions, Hawkeye managed to get Erin to stay somewhat still, though he’d quickly realized she was too young to naturally know what size a breadbox is.

“Oh, wow!” Peg returned with a plate full of fruit and pastries. “Erin, thank Miss Margaret for brushing your pretty hair.”

“Thank you, Miss Margaret,” Erin listened to her mother, stretching out her arms to hug Margaret.

Hawk watched Margaret just melt, closing her eyes as she hugged the little girl tight.

“I hope you don’t mind,” she mumbled, sheepish, as Erin pulled back to cling to her mother. “I figured you could use the help.”

“Oh, not at all.” Peg waved her hand in the air, bidding away Margaret’s doubts. “This morning was such a rush.”

Hawkeye offered her his chair, moving down the table once again. She smiled at him gracefully and sat between them, pulling Erin into her lap. From his new seat, he could see the entrance to the dining room, and he sat there watching, despite himself, waiting for BJ to waltz in, expecting to rise and move down another seat, so BJ could sit with his wife and child to his left and Hawkeye to his right. They could sit elbow to elbow, reaching over each other for the salt and pepper. But Hawkeye’s plate was already near finished, and BJ still hadn’t come down. Maybe he needed the extra sleep. Or maybe he was lying awake in the room, staring up at the ceiling, thinking about last night.

“Margaret, I just love your nails,” Peg smiled between bites of strawberries. “Did you do them yourself?”

“Actually, Pierce did them on the train ride over.” Margaret held out her hands and wiggled her fingers, letting Peg look them over.

“Wow, Hawkeye!” Her eyes went wide, a genuine sparkle in them. “Erin, look at the pretty colors.”

Erin let out “oohs” and “ahs” at the nails until Margaret pulled them away, returning to her plate.

A shiver went through him, and for the first time in years, he felt a sudden need to cover up any scrap of effeminacy.

“Surgeon’s precision,” he smiled at Peg, voice intentionally lowered. “An old girlfriend of mine taught me.”

Carlye had, actually. He’d often painted her nails for her, and once, in turn, she’d painted his a brilliant blue. To match your eyes, she’d told him. There’d been a camera and a silk robe, a cheeky photoshoot that had made her laugh. The photos were tucked in a box of his Boston things, sitting in that spare room in Crabapple Cove. She’d kissed him so sweetly as she’d rubbed off the polish with acetone, telling him how beautiful he’d looked, a burning redness to his ears. It stung, all the time, the gentleness Carlye had met him with. He’d never felt that kind of love before, where someone knew him from tip to tail and soaked him up, begging for more. Where he could jump from any height and be caught in her arms. Until the day he’d landed flat on his face, arriving home to an apartment nearly gutted, a note on the coffee table.

Hawkeye drank more coffee, reminding himself not to go down that line of thinking.

“Maybe you should do mine for tomorrow,” Peg laughed in his ear. Her smile was radiantly beautiful. She’s BJ’s wife, a voice in the back of his head kept reminding him, as if he could ever forget. Like her husband, she was well-read and quick to pick up a joke, and she explained everything to Erin, trying to keep her included in adult conversation that she maybe couldn’t follow just yet. Hawkeye knew that if he had met her first, he’d be head over heels.

He sat back in his chair, watching the table. Peg and Margaret continued to chat, discussing the plans set for later in the day. His father and Potter remained engrossed with one another until Potter suddenly looked up, and his face melted into a soft, dear expression. Mrs. Potter had made it down to breakfast.

Everyone stood up to greet her, which she immediately seemed embarrassed by, with a sweet smile and a rosy blush.

She hugged Peg tightly and gushed over how big Erin had gotten since the party in New York, two years before, when BJ had gathered all their loved ones in one place.

Margaret, red in the face and nervous, reached out a hand. “Major Margaret Houlihan, ma’am.”

“I know who you are, dearie,” Mildred Potter pulled her into a hug. “You are a remarkable young woman.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” she beamed, smile blinding.

Mildred Potter kissed her husband sweetly, then passed him by to finish her hellos. 

“Now, I remember you, Daniel Pierce,” she teased Dad. “It’s good to see you again.”

“I hope you remembered to bring your banjo, Mildred.” Dad smiled at her, kissing her cheek.

“Of course!” Her eyes landed on Hawkeye, and she looked back at Dad. “And this is your boy?”

“My pride and joy,” his eyes wrinkled.

Mrs. Potter pulled him into a big hug, tight and bone-crushing despite her small frame. “You’re a good egg, Hawkeye Pierce,” she told him, quietly. “Thank you for looking out for my Sherm.”

He laughed, trying his best not to suddenly burst into tears. He squeezed her back, then slowly pulled himself out of her grasp. “Anytime, Mrs. Potter.”

She took Dad’s former seat, settling herself between him and Potter, looking absolutely delighted. Hawk had to stand there for a moment, letting the weight in his chest settle. Dad lightly tugged the fabric of his jeans, motioning him to sit.

The little game of musical chairs had brought them together, a single empty chair between them. BJ’s chair.

His eyes flicked back to the door, an itch building inside to just find him, to talk to him. But he wouldn’t know what to say. His anger still simmered underneath the surface, and he wasn’t sure if he was in any state to fully control it. The last thing he needed was to start the weekend by blowing up in front of everyone.

He ignored the itch and the annoyance and the anger and sat back in his chair, focused on finishing off his plate of decent hotel breakfast.

Erin Hunnicutt, sitting next to him, clearly bored by Margaret and her mother’s conversation, stared at Hawkeye as she munched on grapes.

“We’ll make it through the weekend, kid,” he promised her. “Somehow.”

An hour later, Hawkeye and Margaret drank coffee in the hotel lobby, eyes on the elevator, waiting for the return of the Hunnicutts.

Peg had just run upstairs to grab BJ, and Dad and the Potters had already gone ahead with their day, headed to look at paintings in the Art Institute, the three of them a charming trio of silver. There was a joke somewhere about a ménage à trois, but Hawkeye got the willies imagining his father with anyone but his mother.

“You look tired,” Margaret frowned at him over her mug, cutting off Hawkeye’s rambling story about duck ponds.

“Thanks,” he dripped with sarcasm.

“I’m guessing you two didn’t go straight to bed after I left?”

Hawkeye blinked at her. It was too early for this conversation. “We had some catching up to do.”

“I’m sure,” she narrowed her eyes.

The bell of the elevator doors rang, announcing their opening, and Hawkeye lifted his head, looking up as BJ stepped out.

Hawkeye had wished for him to look awful, to be clearly jet-lagged and irritable. But instead, he looked refreshed, sporting that bronze Californian tan. A healthy glow. He’d shaved, too, and his hair was neatly combed. He wore a neat, gray linen suit, perfect for the weather, the entire look complete with Erin in his arms, carried on his hip. Once again, Hawkeye felt sloppy.

“Good morning,” BJ smiled at both of them, unbelievably cheery.

Margaret rose to her feet and threw her arms around him, laughing. He planted a kiss on her cheek, flashing that big smile of his.

Meanwhile, Hawkeye swallowed the lump in his throat and stood up awkwardly, trying his best to smile. “Let’s get going, then?”

BJ met his eye, a silent question, but Hawkeye quickly looked away.

Margaret, who had an itinerary written out in her daybook, determined that they had to make it out to the Buckingham Fountain and, grabbing Peg’s arm, led the way out of the hotel and into the bustling city.

Hawk hovered behind the two women, eavesdropping.

They were catching up, sharing personal histories. Every day, Peg Hunnicutt ate cottage cheese and canned peaches for breakfast, except for vacations, where she made sure to eat all the fresh fruit she could get. He learned that she brushed her golden curls a hundred times each morning and night. He learned that she and BJ had planned Erin out perfectly, timed out to come right at the end of residency. She’d been miserably nauseous throughout the first several months, though, and she’d often pretend to feel fine so BJ wouldn’t be late or attempt to stay behind and take care of her.

“Do you think you’ll have more?” Margaret asked, a curious tilt to her head.

“God, no,” Peg laughed. “Though nothing ever goes quite as we planned it, does it?”

Margaret laughed, too. “Never.”

He listened to Margaret tell Peg about being an army brat and Peg tell Margaret about growing up on a farm. One girl grew up always moving, desperate for somewhere to stay. The other girl grew up feeling stuck, desperate to get out.

Peg, who had been named after her maternal grandmother, had been a “Meg” in her youth, before it turned into “Peggy.” Margaret, named after her paternal grandmother, never once used a nickname, perfectly proud of her given name.

Hawkeye snorted at that answer, earning a glare from Margaret and a sly smile from Peg.

“Your nose is always in women’s business,” Margaret rolled her eyes at him.

“I’d love for my nose to—”

“Stop,” she cut him off.

“Go bug BJ,” Peggy shooed him, a light laughter underneath her voice.

He slowed his pace, a few steps behind them but close enough to remain in earshot. BJ walked only a few paces behind, though he was busy keeping conversation with Erin, who sat on his shoulders. They were playing a rousing game of “I Spy.” Hawkeye tried not to pay attention to the warmth of BJ’s laugh, to the softness in his voice as he played with her.

Eavesdropping always reminded him of being a little boy, quietly pretending to read as he listened in on his mother and her friend Mary gossiping in the kitchen. He’d heard all about how Gene Hopper, who owned the marina, had spent too many nights at the local pub and that his wife, Suzanna, had thrown him out. Though Suzanna wasn’t a saint either, considering she’d been sneaking around with Gene’s brother, Gary. Gossip in Crabapple Cove was almost always about marriages.

One afternoon, after Mary had left, his mother had sat on the arm of his sitting chair and brushed her fingers through his hair. He’d leaned into the touch, resting his head on her chest.

“Ben, honey,” she’d said, a singing hum in her voice. “How come you’ve only read two pages in the last two hours?”

His face burned bright red, giving him away.

She wasn’t mad, though. His mother just laughed, hugging him close to her. “Just don’t repeat anything we say, darling. That’s all I ask.”

From then on, when Mary came over, she’d keep the shutters of the kitchen pass-through open a crack, just so he could hear more clearly.

The morning sun was glaringly bright when their little group arrived in the wide open space of the Buckingham Fountain. They weren’t far from the lake, warm wind gusting towards their group, rippling Hawk’s loose shirt.

The fountain was beautiful, water spurting in the air in an intricate show. Erin clapped her little hands. Hawkeye, snatching Margaret’s waterskin, did his best impression of the water-spouting sea serpents. He was rewarded with laughter from the three girls.

“You’re the spitting image, Hawk.” BJ cracked a smile.

Hawkeye ignored the bait, not bothering to come up with a response but instead flashing a weak smile before turning his attention away.

Margaret met his eye, furrowing her brow. He ignored her.

They took photos together, with a camera that Peg had grabbed from their room. BJ, with Erin on his shoulders. Then Margaret and Hawkeye, on either side of him. Hawkeye squinted, sunlight blinding, but he posed as best he could. BJ had flinched when Hawkeye touched the small of his back, and so Hawk merely hovered his hand behind him. Then, the Hunnicutts, a perfect little family.

Afterwards, Margaret led the group toward the museum, walking across grand bridges, stretching out over the tracks of the Illinois Central Railway. Hawkeye, on a trip to Chicago in college, had considered leaving it all behind to travel the United States by train. But he didn’t. School had been important to him. He was going to be a doctor.

When they reached the Art Institute, the Hunnicutts clumped together, moving as a family unit, both speaking to Erin in hushed tones, asking her what she thought of each painting.

Hawkeye and Margaret hung back, linking arms as they stared at the loose, broken brushwork in the Monets and Renoirs. This was how they’d walked through the museums of New York, making jokes about being a couple on the verge of separation.

“What’s up with you?” Margaret hissed as soon as the Hunnicutts were out of earshot, the three of them stepping into the next gallery. “You’ve been off all morning.”

He stood with Margaret in front of a painting of two acrobatic sisters, dressed in white and gold. One girl’s arms full of oranges, which littered their stage, while the other beckoned to their audience. Hawkeye focused on them, smiled at them, and looked over at Margaret, trying to find some way to explain.

He dropped the facade and, for a moment, just let his emotions wash over him. Disappointment. Anger. A touch of jealousy. Guilt.

Margaret studied him, that little number eleven appearing between her eyebrows, and then her eyes widened, the shock of recognition hitting her. Then, her face dropped. She sighed with her shoulders. She closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Hawkeye...”

“Could we skip the ‘I told you so’? I’m really not in the mood.”

“I’m sorry.” Margaret’s voice got so soft, matching his vulnerability. “I was really hoping it’d work out.”

He didn’t believe her, but he appreciated the sentiment.

“I couldn’t help getting my hopes up,” he sighed. Of course, he’d known that she was right. He just hadn’t wanted to hear it. “I tied them to a balloon and let go. They just rose up and up until it popped.”

She shot him a look straight out of the nurse’s handbook. Pity, comfort, and understanding all in one. “It’ll be okay, Hawkeye,” she told him, patting his arm.

“Maybe,” he sucked in his breath, trying to relax the tension he absolutely teemed with. It didn’t work. “I guess there’s other places, other jobs,” he shifted gears, plastering on a big grin. “And there’s always our arrangement.”

She rolled her eyes and shoved him, pushing them back toward the next gallery. “Don’t give up just yet, Pierce.” She laughed in his ear. “I’ll take you back to New York and we’ll find you your perfect fit.”

In the next gallery, the Hunnicutts had met up with Dad and the Potters, all staring at the colorful dots of A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte. Last month at the Met, Hawkeye and Margaret had pondered over a much smaller version of the painting, the artist’s initial planning of it. Seeing the real thing was something else entirely.

Margaret gasped, putting a hand to her chest, gazing longingly. Hawkeye, with their arms still linked, guided her closer to the painting, catching Dad’s eye. He smiled bigger than Hawk had seen in years.

The museum had been a good idea, actually. His nervousness began to temper as he stared at the great works of art. This painting had killed Impressionism, he’d read once, in some book he’d found one summer visit home, along his mother’s bookshelves.

Hawkeye took it all in, mesmerized by the pinks in the trees, the light blues in the shadows, and the face of that blonde little girl, probably around Erin’s age.

BJ, to his left, held her in his arms, pointing out different parts of the painting. “What’s that right there, Erin?”

“A monkey!” She giggled.

“Yes, a monkey! Isn’t that so silly?”

Something akin to nausea twisted inside him, watching the two of them. He saw how gentle and sweet BJ was with his daughter, the little angel he saw her as, and he suddenly became sure that BJ would spend the next few years insisting on carrying her around even after she became far too big, doing his best to make up for lost time. 

Sometimes, after particularly grueling stints in the O.R., after hours of stitching up young, mangled bodies, BJ would lay on his cot and quietly stare at the latest picture of Erin. His baby. She had been so small when he’d left. During the war, he only had her through letters from Peg and photographs. Whenever children came through the camp, Hawk kept an extra eye on him, waiting to catch BJ before he fell into a fathomless pit of homesickness and despair. But BJ stayed strong, only revealing an occasional look of horror for the lives of these children who did not have mothers to take care of them or fathers who were desperate to return to them.

He watched BJ dote, watched the happiness of fatherhood radiate off of him, and tried not to let jealousy fester. He swallowed, reminding himself that he didn’t want to be upset. He didn’t want to be mad. He wanted to accept things as they were, for none of it to tear holes in the lining of his stomach. Though rarely did Hawkeye ever get what he wanted.

He distracted himself with the paintings, Margaret carting him around, relaxing to the tone of her ooh-ing and aah-ing at different works.

Eventually, his father separated from his travel partners and joined his son in staring at the Van Goghs.

“Your mother read all his letters,” Dad smiled at him, eyes crinkling.

He remembered, though he mainly remembered the physical collection, the shelves and shelves of books in their living room in Crabapple Cove that would never be taken down.

“She’d secretly hoped you’d take that electric mind of yours and be an artist,” Dad told him. “But you were a doctor, from the very start.”

She’d had various Van Gogh books that Hawkeye had found around the house as a teenager, spending afternoons poring over them on the living room floor, staring at the bright, colorful print. They were expensive. And heavy. Dad had told him that when they’d moved from New York, Mom had one suitcase of clothes and twelve boxes of books.

The books were lovely, he’d cherished them, but nothing could compare to actually seeing the paintings with his own eyes. They were built of thick globs of paint, oil canvases that took weeks to dry. The greens of the garden painting burrowed into him, tugging at something in his chest. He missed the fresh greenery of Maine.

Maybe Hawkeye would pick up painting, now in this awkward crossroads he’d stumbled into. It was something for his restless hands to do besides knitting.

He watched Colonel and Mrs. Potter as they whispered to each other about the things they liked and disliked about each painting. There was a face that scared both of them in a painting by Toulouse-Lautrec, a woman who was bluish green with a bright red lip. Hawkeye noticed her nostrils were a light purple.

“I love it,” He’d interjected, with an impish grin. “Reminds me of Margaret.”

Margaret smacked him on the arm. There was a small chorus of laughter.

Once through the Impressionist wing, it became clear to everyone that there was no way one could see the entire museum in one day. The Potters, who had planned their entire morning in the museum, were insistent on visiting American Art, to see the Norman Rockwells, then the Picassos, and to admire the more famous works like American Gothic and Nighthawks. Peggy, however, wanted to view the Thorne Miniature Rooms.

“Like dollhouses?” Hawkeye had asked, a quirk in his smile.

“Intricate ones,” she’d grinned.

He’d glanced down at her watch. “We’ll meet the rest of you in front of the lions in an hour?”

Margaret frowned. “Peg and I can—”

“No, no,” he shook his head. “Go enjoy the famous stuff, Margaret. Us Beats will be in the basement if you need us.”

He looked out at BJ, who shot him a confused look, and sent back one that meant buzz off, that he was insistent on spending time with Peg, outside of the group. And with that, they split off.

“Thanks for humoring me,” Peg had smiled as they walked down the stairs to the basement, the fabric of her circle skirt swishing the whole way down.

She really was beautiful, her presence strikingly commanding. He’d been happy that she and Margaret had hit it off, though it was no surprise to him. BJ always seemed to gravitate towards the loudest voices in the room, whispering in an ear and smiling oh so innocently afterwards. Who, me?

“Of course,” Hawkeye let her lead the way. “I’ve seen all that stuff already. Besides, we’ve got to make your husband insanely jealous, don’t we?”

She laughed, throwing her head back, blonde hair bobbing around her chin. “That we do,” she agreed.

He’d been joking, but a part of him did want BJ upset by their pairing off together. He hoped that he’d caused a considerable level of anxiety to spike, that BJ would spend the next hour worried about what they might be talking about.

The basement gallery was quiet, just a handful of young women roaming on their own. He and Peg walked around admiring the work, standing side by side as they whispered about certain furniture, about the exterior scenes built around the windows, the tiny little worlds. California Living Room, Massachusetts Dining Room, English Drawing Room, Virginia Kitchen.

“Does Erin have a dollhouse?” Hawkeye asked, peering at the landscape outside the Japanese Traditional Interior.

“Not yet,” Peg sighed wearily. “Maybe next year. My father built me a dollhouse for my fifth birthday.”

He nodded. “I got one, too. Though my mother took it away when she realized I’d been stealing her earrings to use as chandeliers.”

Peg giggled, and she leaned into him as they wandered the exhibit, joking and jabbing at the decor, voices hushed.

“I should dress like this,” she’d said, pointing to a miniature painting of a French aristocrat.

“I’d die for those curtains,” Hawkeye mumbled, staring at the bright red fabric.

When they paused in front of a Cape Cod living room interior, Hawkeye clutched his chest dramatically. “This is as close to home as they get,” he told her.

“I wish I could’ve gone,” she hummed. “I’m sure your home is beautiful.”

“Maybe next time,” He smiled at her, though selfishly, he had been thankful she hadn’t gone on the trip. Everything would have been different if she had.

“I’d love a greenhouse with lattice work like that,” she pointed out to him, the exterior peeking out through the door. “Our next house, maybe.”

“Your next house?” He raised an eyebrow. “What’s wrong with the current one?”

She shrugged. “We bought that place while BJ was still in med school. It’s never felt like forever.”

“Selling all those homes got you envious, huh?”

Peg laughed, suddenly caught, a blush forming on her cheeks. “They make ours look like a dump, Hawkeye!”

He laughed too, clutching her arm.

A docent shushed them, causing them to erupt into another round of raucous laughter.

They stayed only a little longer, until they were shushed twice more and stumbled out of the exhibit, then back up the stairs, giggling like schoolgirls.

“How much time do we have?” He asked as they stepped out of the museum, onto the front steps. They stood aside on the stairs, and Hawk grabbed her left wrist, checking the dainty silver watch.

“Don’t you own a watch?” She teased, letting him look.

“Only when working,” he shrugged, then gave her wrist back. “We’ve got another twenty minutes if you want to walk around the gardens.”

“Perfect,” she grinned. “I need a cigarette.”

“I thought you quit.”

She pressed a finger to her lips. “What BJ doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”

Hawkeye hummed, letting her lead the way to the gardens.

“Are you mad at him or something?” She frowned, pulling out a pack of Marlboros, lighting one.

“Who says I’m mad at him?” They sat on the edge of one of the fountains, the water bubbling, an easy noise to focus on, to try and relax to.

“That kicked puppy look on his face when you don’t laugh at his jokes.”

He ran a hand through his hair, sighing. “We got into a fight last night.”

“So?” Peg took a long drag. “Can’t you just play nice?”

“Is that what you do?” He raised an eyebrow.

Her eyes narrowed. “This isn’t about me.”

Hawkeye looked over at the small fountain, watching the water trickle.

“He’s missed you, y’know.” She held out the cigarette, offering it to him.

“I know that,” he sighed, taking it from her. “I’ve missed him, too.”

“Can’t that be enough?”

“No,” Hawkeye took a long drag. “It can’t.”

~~~

May 1955

The trip was awful.

BJ, shaking with nerves, had been graciously overserved at a bar in the San Francisco Airport, and the bourbon, sitting warm in his belly during his initial flight to New York, ultimately led to an embarrassing moment of airsickness in the bathroom.

At LaGuardia, he had no time to eat, let alone buy more drinks; instead, he had to run through the airport to catch his connecting flight, the only flight to Portland each day. He’d sat down in the plane, catching his breath, when the captain announced a mechanical delay that left them sitting at the gate for forty-five minutes.

Sweat pooled in his shoes. The woman next to him lit up one of the complimentary cigarettes. A few seats away, a man and his wife lit theirs.  Acrid smoke curled through the tight, metal box. The worst part was knowing it would cling to his clothes, stick to him the rest of the day. Another weight, another discomfort pressed into the strain of his shoulders.

After taking off, the small jetcraft shook through the sky with nauseating turbulence, leaving BJ’s heart pounding in his chest. The tension built inside him, no sense of ease washing over until the aircraft began to descend above the Atlantic Ocean, the water stretching out beneath them. He’d never seen it before.

Upon landing, relief flooded his entire system. A part of him hadn’t expected to make it, sure that some freak accident would happen and he’d be dead, some kind of divine punishment for his arrogance. After all, he’d gotten stuck in Guam, nearly two years ago, sitting in the airport, wondering why he couldn’t catch a break. Wondering why he had to go back.

There was something childish in him that wanted to cling to divinity. Something he hadn’t fully scraped out from years of Sunday school. He’d found it all so grating, being shoved into a room with all the other children, sitting in a circle as Miss Deirdre recounted biblical stories, though he’d been glad not to spend the entire service sitting in the pews, his mother hissing at him to stop fidgeting with his clothes. Except for days he’d faked sickness, desperate for an excuse to not go, BJ went to church every Sunday, frustration building in his chest that he was expected to worship a man who had never once answered his prayers.

He’d dedicated the time he should’ve been praying, the time he should’ve been reflecting on the greatness of God, to memorizing scripture, a party trick that charmed most adults, that occasionally brought a rare smile to his father’s face.

Any lingering attachments he’d had to the concept of God were crushed in the war. For some men, faith was the cure to all their troubles. For BJ, liquor proved to be the better band-aid. He’d admired the chaplain’s best efforts and kept respectful as he’d always been, of course, but Father Mulcahy could never compete with the manic ramblings of Korea’s loudest agnostic. “What kind of God would allow this to happen?”

God or fate or the universe or something, having tossed him around all day, finally let things fall into place. He exited the plane, the hard knot in his stomach — which he’d insist was from the bourbon, the vomiting, or the rough air — shifting around, adapting to the fresh air, to where he’d landed after all this time. 

He stepped out onto the tarmac, where a western sun burned his eyes. A large group of folks stood waiting for the arrival of their loved ones, backlit by the sun. Before he could make out any faces, a familiar hunch came into view.

His body moved before his brain could catch up, rushing forward and running across the pavement, charging into his best friend.

With a yelp, Hawkeye Pierce was in BJ’s arms again.

It was delightful the way BJ knocked the wind right out of him, Hawkeye having to grab his arms tight to avoid toppling over. If he’d cared any less about appearances, BJ would hoist him in the air and spin him around, if only for the crazy laugh that would bubble out of Hawk as he did it.

“Christ!” Hawkeye laughed, pressing his hands on either side of BJ’s head. “Aren’t I the luckiest gal in the world?”

His eyes shone bright, his smile wide as ever. He glowed under BJ’s gaze, just as he always had.

BJ instantly forgot about the knot, forgot about anything else but the release of an ache deep in his bones. I’m here, something gasped in relief, flooding him with excitement. He’d finally made it to Maine.

“Oh, you’re something alright.” BJ pulled back, letting go of Hawk’s waist but still hovering close to him, looking him up and down.

That olive drab uniform was long gone, replaced with a pair of Levis and a thin blue flannel, unbuttoned over a bleach white t-shirt. A rush of delight ran through him. Hawkeye in his civvies. In blue jeans. More black had returned to his hair, though silver was still highlighted throughout.

There was no longer a gauntness to his face; his cheeks filled in. BJ used to stare at him, used to watch with concern, bothered most on days when nothing in the mess had passed the smell test or when Hawk would subsist on just the middles of bread and insist he was better off this way.

He still looked tired. More relaxed, but tired. Though BJ hadn’t stopped feeling tired, either. Not yet.

“Tell me everything,” Hawkeye begged as they waited for his baggage. “How’s the family?”

“Pretty swell,” he beamed, looking out at the bags, handlers placing them directly on the tarmac. “Peg’s a full-time realtor now, I’ve kept myself busy as an attending, and Erin’s quite popular in preschool.”

“And Peg made you go back to a bare upper lip?” He raised an eyebrow, teasing. 

BJ laughed, running his fingers over the bare skin. “I knew you harbored a secret love for the ‘stache.” 

“Love is a strong word, Beej,” Hawkeye rolled his eyes, but BJ could see the fondness behind them. “How was the flight?”

“Fine,” he shrugged, not wanting to admit his discomfort. “Long.”

Hawkeye shot him an odd look, something he couldn’t read. Just then, his bag was placed on the tarmac. A worn, brown leather case with a ribbon of gingham tied to it, courtesy of Peg. He slipped away to grab it, ignoring the knot tightening in his stomach. With a nod, they headed off to the parking lots.

The car, a Chevy owned by Hawkeye’s father for sixteen years, eased along the Coast of Maine. “On a good day, my dad drives three miles,” Hawkeye told him. “He never leaves town. This car has been waiting for me to drive it, all its life.”

BJ had expected Hawkeye’s driving to be significantly better in a real car, on real roads, and yet his turns were still jerky, his speed inconsistent. BJ felt nauseous rather quickly, though they had sixty miles ahead of them. He stared out the window, trying to shake off the irritation clinging to his shoulders. He was uncomfortable, limbs a hair too long for the car. He was sick of the stale smell of cigarette smoke that stuck to him and itched from the sweat that had dripped down his back. 

“Did you keep up with that McCarthy stuff last year?” Hawkeye asked, offering up a topic.

“Really, Hawk?” BJ grimaced. “I can’t stand that stuff.”

“Well, I did,” he continued, not getting the hint. “Our senator—she’s the first woman to serve in both Houses of Congress, mind you—She was the first person to speak out against him, so they publicized a load of negative press about him.” Hawkeye quickly slipped into rambling, filling the dead air. “I don’t agree with her on most things, but more idiots deserve to be chided by strong women named Margaret, don’t you think?”

BJ looked him up and down. “So, you’re obsessed with McCarthyism now?”

“I can’t stop thinking about it,” Hawk continued. “They censured him like six months ago, and I still can’t stop thinking about how he’s this bully and a hypocrite who lost so many people their jobs. He made all this hubbub about banning homosexuals from the state department, only to be pulling all these special favors for Roy Cohn’s little boyfriend.”

“Can we talk about something else?” BJ shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his nausea getting worse.

“Why?” Hawk glanced at him, annoyed. “None of this concerns you?”

“Of course it concerns me, Hawk,” BJ rolled his eyes. “That’s why I can’t worry about it anymore. Do you really think I want to spend this trip talking about the worst things happening in the world?”

Hawkeye huffed, like a child. “I’m just trying to make conversation,” he grumbled.

“I don’t like to keep worrying about things that make me angry and upset,” BJ bit, irritation rising.

Hawkeye shook his head. “You’re impossible.”

The car was quiet for a moment. Hawk gripped the steering wheel, setting his jaw. They drove along the coastline, bobbing in and out of cozy main streets.

He thought about the knot in his stomach, wishing he could just snap out of it. That suddenly everything would feel correct. Hawkeye was right here, right next to him! That should be enough.

“I’m sorry,” BJ apologized, suddenly. “The flight sucked.”

Hawkeye laughed, tension releasing from his shoulders. “I hate that flight out of New York,” he smiled, understanding. “I always take the train. If I’d known you were coming, I would’ve told you to layover in Detroit.”

“That’s how I’ll book my return flight, then.”

Hawk looked at him, then looked back at the road. “You haven’t booked one?”

The knot twisted suddenly. “Could we open a window?”

Hawkeye let him change the subject, cranking open the window next to him, and BJ opened the one on his side. Wind rushed through the car. The fresh air smelled amazing.

They stayed silent for another minute, and then Hawkeye’s fingers began to drum on the wheel. He was holding his tongue.

“What?” BJ asked without thinking.

“Why are you here, Beej?” Hawkeye answered immediately, eyes still on the road.

“What do you mean?” BJ furrowed his brow. Wasn’t it obvious? “I’m here for you.”

Another quick glance over at him. “I didn’t ask you to come.”

“You called me.”

Hawkeye gripped and ungripped the wheel. “I don’t— I was drunk.”

“I know.”

“Did I ask you to come?”

“You didn’t have to.”

“I shouldn’t have even called,” he croaked. “I didn’t think you’d hop on the next plane.”

“Are you kidding me?” BJ shot a glare across the space, staring red into Hawk’s profile. “I would’ve walked to Maine if I had to.”

“You shouldn’t have to—”

“I’d want to.”

Hawkeye still didn’t look at him. That knot in his stomach twisted again. Eyes on the road, BJ used to snip at him as they zipped through the Korean countryside. Now he couldn’t even look at BJ.

“I’ve missed you,” Hawkeye huffed instead.

A small smile cracked his lips. “I’ve missed you, too.”

They continued to cruise along the coast, roads winding in and out of small towns.

“Tell me more about Maine.” BJ plastered on a grin, patting Hawkeye’s shoulder. 

Hawkeye nodded. He took a beat, just a second or two where he didn’t say a word, but quickly he bounced back, spouting off various state facts. As they traveled on, he rambled with irritation about construction and highways. BJ listened to him, relaxing in his seat, staring out the window. The late spring sun was setting, turning all these tiny towns golden.

It became obvious when they weren’t far out, Hawkeye’s yammering and nervous tapping on the wheel increasing, indicating their proximity. The seaside had disappeared, shifting into a road lined thick with trees. The stretch of drive curved around the forests, opening up only for side roads and small houses. Eventually, they passed the large wooden sign that read “Welcome to Crabapple Cove.”

And then, the town opened up.

From the top of the hill, they could see the ocean cove down below, with small docks littering the coastline. They drifted down, into the valley, to a town carved out of the hills. The road straightened out onto Main Street, fully lined with small shops. Right away, BJ spied a pizza place, a tiny movie theater, and a furnace retailer. The largest buildings they passed were an inn with bright blue architecture, a sprawling fishermen’s shop, and a local grocer's with a large red sign reading “Wentworth’s.” 

The town was quiet, save for a few boys on bicycles, pedaling up the incline. They waved at the car as he and Hawkeye coasted down the hill. Hawkeye waved back.

“Do you know them?” BJ asked, looking back as they passed.

“I know everybody here, Beej,” Hawkeye rolled his eyes, like it’d been ridiculous he’d ever suggested otherwise.

They pulled into a gas station, right up to one of the pumps. “Just a quick pitstop,” Hawk had smiled, sliding out of the car and gesturing for BJ to join him.

A bell rang overhead as they opened the door, stepping into the tiniest convenience store BJ had ever been to. It was hardly bigger than his living room in Mill Valley, though they’d filled all of the space with rows and rows of snacks.

“Up to trouble again, Hawkeye Pierce?” A young woman crooned to their right.

“I’m always up to trouble, Dottie,” he grinned widely, placing cash on the counter. “Three dollars on pump four, please.”

BJ glanced over the spattering of freckles across her face, the shock of red curls pulled back into a ponytail, her hand resting on her cheek as she leaned on the raised shop counter. He could tell she was a big personality, from the flicker in her eye that matched Hawk’s.

“Only ‘cause you said please,” he heard Dottie tease, opening the till.

Once, Hawkeye had joked that the State of Maine was run on child labor, spouting off stories about the various jobs he’d held as a kid. Meanwhile, there had been four distinct arguments BJ had with his parents about his wanting to get a job at the country club. He’d won none of them.

The store was empty except for the three of them, adding another uneasy feeling to the multitude in his stomach. It was pretty late in the evening for a young woman to be working all by herself, a whole store to watch over. She was young enough to be a college student or possibly still in high school. His sisters would never have been allowed out this late, not on their own. Though he’d regularly helped Alice sneak out of the house. Mainly under threat.

BJ busied himself with walking down the aisles of the shop. On the drive up, they’d passed various food shacks and ice cream stands, but Hawkeye never offered to stop. After the third one, BJ’s stomach had grumbled loudly, causing Hawkeye to burst with horn-like laughter.

“Dinner will be on the table when we get home,” he’d promised. BJ flashed a smile, deciding not to tell him that his only meal of the day had come up with his bourbon, somewhere above the Midwest.

“Who’s your handsome friend?” Dottie mused coyly, like any other schoolgirl.

BJ eyed the fridges of bright colored soda, wandering along them. She whispered something that he didn’t catch.

“Oh, no.” Hawkeye chirped. “This one’s married.”

Dottie let out a scoffing laugh. “Since when has that stopped you?”

Hawkeye howled, echoing through the store. “Stopped me this time, Dottie,” he promised.

The potato chip aisle was full of brands BJ had never even heard of, different logos smiling up at him. He stared at them, hard. Ketchup-flavor? Dill pickle? Sour cream and clam? He could no longer make out their hushed tones.

“Beej!” Hawk suddenly shouted.

“What?” He popped his head out.

“Get some beer and chips. If Dad isn't ready, we can sit on the porch and snack.”

“On it,” he gave a thumbs up. Looking back at the aisle, he hesitated, still passively trying to listen in on their conversation. Which one would Hawkeye even want?

“Alright, I’ve got to go pump,” Hawkeye outright giggled. “I’ll see you later, Dottie.”

“Catch you later, Hawkeye,” she hummed.

BJ settled on a large bag of kettle chips and a six-pack of the closest beer. “The pumps are self-service?” He asked as he approached the counter.

Dottie tilted her head. “Why wouldn’t they be?”

“Right, of course.” BJ nodded. He pulled out his wallet.

“Dollar fifty,” she chimed, pulling out a brown paper bag.

“What?” He looked over the items, the numbers not adding up.

“It’s a discount.” She pointed to a sign behind her. 10% Discount for US Veterans.

That stomach knot had begun to strangle him, stopping him dead in his tracks. He could feel bile in the back of his throat. It would be awful if he threw up on the floor of Coveside Convenience, leaving this poor teenage girl to clean it up. But God, BJ hated being seen through. His whole life, he’d been terrified of people who might be able to tell something about him, just by a single look. He’d once nearly ruined a dinner party when a friend of a friend had insisted she was psychic.

“Hmm,” Melody had tapped her chin, staring at him across the dinner table. “I get the feeling you had a tense upbringing.”

“I’d like to opt out of the psychoanalysis, thank you,” he’d hummed into his soup. He’d been exhausted, in his third year of med school, and the dinner party was hosted by Stephanie Quinn, a friend of Peg’s he didn’t really like but tolerated enough.

“Your brother misses you,” Melody told him. She had been Stephanie’s college roommate, a dear friend of hers, which made BJ dislike Stephanie even more. This prying, grating young woman stared at him, furrowing her brow. “Why won’t you speak to him?”

“Would you cut it out?” BJ hissed, setting his spoon down with a clatter.

“Melody,” Stephanie had chided from her place at the table. “Leave BJ alone.”

And she did, for the rest of the meal. But once everyone had gathered in the living room to listen to music, in the time between dinner and dessert, Melody managed to sneak up behind him. She was relentless. With a cold hand on his shoulder, she whispered in his ear. “You can’t just fix things with your father by becoming a doctor.”

“Who says I want to?” He’d snipped back, voice louder than he’d meant. The whole gathering turned to face them, and BJ, face bright red, made a beeline for the bathroom, where he sat on the edge of the tub, willing himself not to get overwhelmed, not to cry or throw up or break things. Peg, gentle and kind, waited patiently outside the bathroom door for him. When he resurfaced, she didn’t leave his side the rest of the night.

“You are sharing with Hawkeye, aren’t you?” Dottie blinked at him, tugging him out of the memory.

Oh. Of course. She had no idea who BJ was to Hawk, did she? Though clearly she'd whispered a couple of theories.

“Right,” BJ nodded, trying to hide his gasp of relief. He flashed a smile as he fished out the dollar and two quarters. “Thanks, Dottie.”

As soon as she finished bagging, he ducked out of the store, rushing to the car.

“What’d you get?” Hawk shouted across the station. He smiled, brighter than ever. The sun was setting, light catching in the silver of his hair and the blue of his eyes. In some ways, he hadn’t aged a day.

Their ride wasn’t much longer, a turn onto a dirt road, where they’d rolled up the windows to not kick up dust into the car. There were a couple minutes of just passing through stretches of trees, a beautiful landscape with only a few houses carved into it. Eventually, Hawkeye slowed down and pulled into a driveway, arriving at an idyllic house. A summer cottage, Hawk had called it once.

The house was a shade of blue, its trim entirely painted white, though it was due for a touch-up. Lavish perennials filled the front yard, shades of purple speckling the landscape.

The front door opened as they parked, a bespectacled man with a shock of white hair waving to them. They stepped out of the car, Hawkeye running quickly to get BJ’s bag from the trunk.

“BJ Hunnicutt,” Daniel Pierce grinned widely as he approached the door, eyes wrinkling the same as Hawkeye’s. “We finally meet.”

“Dr. Pierce,” BJ held out his hand, the other securely holding the brown paper bag. “It’s an honor to finally meet you.”

“Oh, please,” he clasped BJ’s hand between both of his. “Call me Daniel.”

He began to guide him inside, Hawk following with the suitcase. BJ had expected a spryness, the same nervous electric energy that Hawkeye sparked with, but the man was far more gentle. He was calm. Perhaps it was the age catching up to him, slowing him down. Though from Peg’s mention of him, from the length of the letters the two had written back and forth, Daniel Pierce appeared to him as a sturdy man.

Good, he’d thought. The Hawkeye he’d known had needed a balance, a bouncing board, someone that would let his head float in the clouds but wouldn’t let him go, would keep him planted to the ground. Once, in a fanciful mood, BJ had joked that if Hawkeye built a set of wax wings to fly out of Korea, BJ would be there, making sure he wouldn’t fly too close to the sun.

“Thank you for welcoming me to your home, Daniel,” BJ smiled, as politely as possible.

“It’s no trouble at all,” Dr. Pierce smiled at him, genuinely. “Between the stories from Ben and your darling wife, I feel like I’ve known you for years.”

BJ blushed, a little overwhelmed at the thought of it. It felt unnatural for this man to know him, yet he couldn’t deny a similar feeling. Back in Korea, BJ loved hearing the letters Hawkeye got from his father. He’d loved the fondness in Hawkeye’s voice, smiling through updates on the school musicals and the lobster festival, on how well Grandma Pierce’s blueberry cake recipe was received at Eliza Hill’s barbecue. Peg’s letters with Dr. Pierce had been more private, though. She only occasionally shared notes from them, more from BJ prying than her naturally volunteering information.

He shied away from the elder Pierce’s gaze, focusing on looking around the home. The first thing BJ noticed was a red, lumpy couch with a large knit blanket. An embroidered pillow that read “Home Sweet Home.” There were endless shelves of books. The windows had plaid curtains, blue and pleated, pulled back to reveal the last edges of sunset. An old coffee cup sat on a side table, a newspaper next to it. There was a laundry basket on a chair in the living room, full of balled-up socks. Pictures littered the mantle: a dark-haired couple with their expressive little boy, young men playing outside, and various graduations. It was warm. Lived in. A home, more than a house.

Suddenly, he remembered, drunk as he’d been that day, stumbling into the Swamp for the first time and seeing all the frills that had and would make a tent like that home. The dartboard on the door. The dirty socks that littered around Hawkeye’s bunk. Letters from Maine pinned to a wooden shelf. Hawk’s bathrobe. The still. 

Dr. Pierce took the brown paper convenience bag from BJ’s hands, heading towards a door that led to the kitchen. “I’m about to put some burgers on the grill, boys, so you ought to go freshen up. Ben will show you to your room.”

BJ turned back to face Hawkeye, who smiled, holding up BJ’s suitcase. “Welcome to our humble abode.”

“Your father makes everyone call you Hawkeye, but he calls you Ben?”

“It’s a fun little prank we play on the rest of the world,” Hawk winked.

They hiked up a steep, creaky staircase, lined with even more framed photographs. A woman with bright blue eyes and Hawkeye’s nose. Hawkeye, younger than Erin, in a pumpkin costume. “Adorable,” BJ pointed out, and Hawk rolled his eyes, leading him up to the toasty second floor.

The Pierces had a small, well-kept guest room with a queen bed, cozy with its blue comforter and afghan blanket of green and white. Hawkeye set down BJ’s bag, placing it next to a small stack of cardboard boxes. “I spent today and yesterday cleaning a bunch of junk out of here,” he explained.

“Nothing important, I hope,” BJ chided, sitting down on the bed.

“Nah, just the birth certificates and social security cards.” 

BJ eyed the boxes, suddenly having to dampen the urge to snoop through them. Hawkeye had to have been testing him, leaving the boxes in the room. But he’d have to investigate it later, sinking back into the soft mattress. He leaned all the way back, lying down on top of the bed covers. His eyes were so heavy.

“Nope, nope, nope,” Hawkeye grabbed at his arm, swooping right in. “If you do that, you’re gonna wake up too early and be tired all day.”

“I’ll be tired all day either way,” BJ grumbled, going limp as Hawk tugged at him.

“I don’t care how long of a day it’s been, you’re never gonna balance that internal clock like this. Your nights will be days and your days will be nights, and that’s no way to spend a vacation.”

“Is it a vacation?” BJ opened an eye.

“Can’t you make it one?” Hawkeye pleaded, holding his arm to his chest.

In Korea, they’d talked about BJ taking a vacation to Maine, poring over Hawkeye’s treasured copy of LIFE magazine. He’d shown it off eagerly, telling BJ about each place. It’s paradise, he’d promised.

“Alright,” he sighed, allowing Hawkeye to tug him off the bed.

“Come see my room,” Hawkeye continued to drag him into the hall, not letting go of his arm.

“Your childhood bedroom?”

“It’s my adult bedroom now, too.”

He opened the door with a flourish, welcoming BJ in.

Clutter took over every free space that might be atop the various bookshelves and dressers. There were movie tickets, rings, candy pieces, photographs, and half-drunk glasses of water. The room was practically wallpapered with even more photographs, postcards, and posters, all pinned directly on the wall, with only a few hints of faded baby blue peeking out.

The only photographs in BJ’s bedroom had been set on his spotless nightstand. A framed copy of a family portrait, with a wallet-sized fuzzy photo of his dog, Charlie, slid into the bottom right corner. His walls did not have images, but calligraphies of bible verses his mother had put up around the room. Galatians 5:24. If we live in the Spirit, let us also walk in the Spirit. Colossians 3:16. Let the word of Christ dwell in you richly in all wisdom; teaching and admonishing one another in psalms and hymns and spiritual songs, singing with grace in your hearts to the Lord.

At age eleven, he’d begged his parents to paint his room a bright color. They’d insisted on keeping the ugly striped wallpaper, telling him he was being ungrateful. It wasn’t until after he’d left for college that his mother had painted over the wallpaper with an even uglier green, once she’d turned it into a sewing room.

He looked down at the floor, toeing at the dirty socks. BJ had never had more than two pairs of socks on the bedroom floor without an earful from his mother, who would enter it each day without knocking, to collect his laundry.

It all felt like Hawkeye. His living habits hadn’t gotten any cleaner.

But this was his room since childhood, BJ remembered. Since birth. It had to have been kept in a similar condition for decades.

Seeing Hawkeye’s house, his home, tugged at that knot again, and BJ had become too tired to continue ignoring it. His room had never looked like this.

He felt a sour mood start to cloud him, a bitterness growing in his stomach, as it did when he thought about his parents. But he was just hungry, wasn’t he? Trying to grasp onto any minor slight and annoyance, trying to relieve that damn knot.

Hawk sat down at the foot of the bed, springs creaking. “Welcome to my Royal bedchambers.”

The great Hawkeye, in its natural habitat. BJ felt warm, looking over at him. He waited for ease to settle in his bones, to fall back into a rhythm that didn’t exist anymore. But the knot, that great tangle, had gotten worse by the hour. There was the nausea, the hunger pains. But there was an underlying nervousness, an unease that had followed him and just wouldn’t go away. And maybe this was an unease he’d always felt with Hawkeye, one he hadn’t had time to notice with the war going on. But Hawkeye was a buoy in the open ocean, saving BJ from drowning. When nothing in the world made sense, Hawkeye’s own insanity kept BJ sane. He wasn’t supposed to be feeling this way.

BJ sat down next to him, looking out at the room. He pushed the knot further down to smile at Hawkeye, who batted his eyelashes at him. It reminded BJ of the wide-eyed girls Leo Bardonaro would bring back to their dorm, the polite introduction he’d been given to Julie, to Daisy, to Sarah, just before BJ would be kicked out to go study in the library. If the long line of lightly harassed nurses was any indication, Hawkeye had to have had his own flood of girls coming in and out of his room.

“Are you happy?” Hawkeye asked him. 

It surprised him, though it shouldn’t have. Their knees were touching.

“Are you?” BJ kept his gaze fixed on the gesture.

“Maybe,” he shrugged, simply. “I’ve missed you,” he added, a quirk in his smile.

“I’ve missed you, too,” BJ repeated, because it was something he could say, something that he could admit.

Hawkeye’s legs swung back and forth, hanging off the bed. It was a full bed, not quite as big as the one in the guest room, but larger than the twin bed BJ had grown up with. Maybe it was a newer edition to the room, an upgrade after the three years of cot-sleeping Hawk had to live through.

“You should shower,” Hawk told him, bumping their shoulders together.

He wrinkled his nose. “I don’t smell that bad, do I?”

“Well…”

BJ couldn’t pretend to be mad at the honesty, a laugh bubbling out of him.

“Just wash the world off of you,” Hawkeye hummed, tugging at BJ’s shirt sleeve. His clothes smelled like cigarettes anyway. “Dad won’t care if you eat burgers in your pajamas,” he’d teased.

“Fine,” BJ made a big show of rolling his eyes and pushing himself off the bed. “But only because I want to, not because you told me to.”

“Yes, sir,” Hawkeye mock-saluted, that little hand wave he’d do, making BJ laugh.

In the bathroom, he hunched under the too-low showerhead, laughing to himself at the thought of Hawk’s poor posture being in part due to the fixture. Here, in Crabapple Cove, he was surrounded by all the little pieces that had made up Hawkeye Pierce.

He did end up eating dinner in his pajamas, sitting at a little table on the back porch, overlooking a yard that rolled down a hill, down to a cropping of trees and a stream that led to a pond, where wild blueberry bushes littered the shore. Hawkeye explained all of this between bites, hands gesturing wildly, excitedly. BJ laughed at him, unbelievably fond. Hawkeye’s father laughed too, reminding Hawk to eat his food, to chew with his mouth closed.

The porch was lit by citronella candles, warding off the mosquitoes and black flies. BJ felt miles better with food in his stomach and the pleasant buzz of beer, relaxing as the darkness of night bled in, as Hawkeye waxed on in his ear.

He drifted, the peace of their little scene and the heaviness of his eyelids winning out against BJ’s willpower. He recognized the sensation of Hawkeye grabbing him by the arm, of the heat of Hawk’s breath as he laughed in his ear. They creaked up the stairs, and when BJ felt the sensation of falling, he took Hawkeye with him, lying in the guest bed.

“Beej,” he heard Hawk say, on an exhale. Without even looking, BJ could tell he was smiling as he said it, from that particular tone. Beej, he’d whine, he’d jest, he’d argue. Beej, he’d whisper, he’d complain, he’d tempt. Each one was catalogued in the encyclopedia of Hawkeye Pierce, in the back of his head.

“Yeah?” His eyes fluttered open. The room was dark, though some light streamed in from the slightly ajar door. Hawkeye laid across from him. He smelled like pine soap. BJ probably did, too. He’d used that bar in the shower. 

Hawkeye’s shoulders rose as he took a deep breath. “Thanks for coming,” he hummed, staring out at him.

“Any time,” BJ whispered, before falling asleep.