IT DOESN'T MATTER
By

Nikki Harrington

BJ is in the Officers' Club waiting for Hawkeye.
A pre-slash story.
Re-Written: September 2007. Word count: 700.

"See you at the club," he said.

That was over thirty minutes and two drinks ago and I'm still waiting.

I wonder which nurse he's persuaded to play doctor with him this time?

Jealous?

Yes, I am.

I'm jealous of the time and attention he pays to the nurses; time and attention he should be paying to me. After all, aren't I his best friend? Don't I stand up for him against all the odds? Aren't I his partner in crime when it comes to plotting against Frank? Yes, I am.

Frank's over there with Margaret; they're sitting close, gazing into one another's eyes, no doubt their legs are touching under the table. They're together. In love? In lust? Whatever. At least the two of them are with one another.

So why isn't he here with me? Why isn't he sitting here next to me? His shoulder pressing against mine, his arm around my shoulders, his hand patting my leg. He should be here, flicking back his over-long hair, and letting me gaze into his eyes. I swear I've never seen such blue eyes before.

I wonder what he'd say if I told him I'd lied to him? Lied about never being tempted.

What would he say if I told him that from the moment I shook his hand and introduced myself, I wanted him?

What would he say if I told him that by the time he held my head while I threw up, I knew I was going to fall in love with him?

It's now been forty minutes and three drinks.

Maybe tonight will be the night I'll tell him. It gets harder each time not to. Every touch, every look, every smile. Every day and every night I have to fight not to tell him. Or worse still not to grab him and kiss him.

He's kissed a man before, he told me. Trapper John McIntyre - my predecessor; the man I'll never cease trying to live up to. The kiss wasn't sexual, just as when Hawk kissed Henry Blake, that wasn't sexual either.

But the way I want to kiss him is.

But he's not here.

Maybe he won't come.

Maybe she's too good.

Maybe . . . 

He's here.

Doctor's white coat over his army greens. His face matches the coat. His hair's a mess. He tries to smile, but his eyes tell me the truth. He hasn't been with a nurse.

He's been in post-op.

Now I remember: Tommy, the young kid he spent three hours operating on. The kid we - Colonel Potter, Frank, Margaret, the Father, even Hawkeye himself - all knew wouldn't make it. But still Hawkeye tried.

It's what he does. It's the only way he knows. The only way he'll let himself know. He tries. And tries. And tries. No matter how hopeless it is. Still he tries. He has to. If he didn't, it'd drive him mad.

He hates it when he loses one of them. It doesn't matter that he saves nine out of ten. What matters is the one.

He sits down next to me. He doesn't even wait to order a drink. Instead he reaches out and grabs mine. In one swallow it's gone.

I order two more.

They both go.

And the next two.

Finally, he pauses and slumps against me, his head on my shoulder. I hold my breath; but no one will notice, we mess around all the time. He's tactile is Hawk. I sometimes think if I did kiss him here, in the middle of the club, no one would say a word.

I let him rest there. His breath is warm on my neck. I feel a drop of moisture, and another and a third. He sniffs. I say nothing. Finally, he moves his head, drags his hand across his face and picks up his own glass.

"Sorry, I'm late," he says, holding his glass out to me. And he smiles, a real Benjamin Franklin ‘Hawkeye' Pierce smile. Strained, exhausted, but real. I sometimes think I'm the only person who ever gets a ‘real' Hawkeye smile.

"It doesn't matter," I reply.

And I know that another night will pass without me telling him my secret.

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