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There was a time when he’d known San Francisco like the back of his hand, but that was before the move to Los Angeles. Hell, it was before his time in Korea. He thinks about that as he drives his car slowly enough to react to directions stammered out by a ten-year-old child who’s trying not to listen to her brother’s moans in the back seat. He wishes like hell that he still knew the city that well, because if he did, he never would have accepted Taylor’s scrawled note as a reasonable description of the best way to get to St. Luke’s from his hotel. He certainly never would have started his day by hitting a child who’d run between two cars and straight in front of BJ’s bumper.
“Turn right,” the girl says, and it’s difficult to say what unnerves her more: her mother’s panicked assurances that her brother will be fine, just fine, or the fact that she’s sitting in the front seat of a car with a white man who makes more money in a month than her family will over the next two years.
He’s about to turn when the mother — god, he used to be good at catching names on the fly, but he can’t remember hers — says, “No. Go left then take the next right. Clinic’s three blocks down on the left after that.”
“Got it,” he says, injecting a measure of what he hopes to hell sounds like measured calm and not the smooth indifference of the beat cop who’d shown up after the accident. If there’d been time, he would have taken the man’s badge number and reported him, but the boy — Clarence? Clive? — had been screaming and bleeding, and no one, not even the cop, had made a move to call an ambulance. Putting the child in the back of his car was the only reasonable option left, and he would have done so immediately if the mother — Jane, that’s her name, Jane Martin — hadn’t insisted on toweling to protect the leather. He would have argued the point, but the slight delay gave him a chance to check the child’s injuries before attempting to move him.
The clinic is exactly where it’s supposed to be, and BJ is grateful there’s a parking spot in front. He turns the car around neatly and says, “Wait here. I’ll see if they have a gurney.”
“Dr. Ben’s got nothing like that,” Mrs. Martin says. “All he’s got is a stretcher.”
“I’ll get that, then,” he tells her.
This is all wrong. They should be at a hospital, not an inner-city clinic that looks like it’s being held together by spit and bailing wire. The front door is barely hanging straight, and there’s a spider-crack in one of the panes. He suspects the last time this building saw paint was sometime before prohibition, and he can’t imagine why this rickety operation is preferable to going to Memorial Hospital.
He bursts through the door calling out, “We need a stretcher!”
The nurse on the front desk frowns at him. “What’s wrong?”
“A child,” he says, his voice breaking for the first time since the accident. “I hit — he’s in the back of my car with his mother. He needs medical attention.” As the woman stands up, he nonsensically adds, “I’m a doctor.”
“Good for you, honey. Now get back here and help me with this thing.” A couple of men block him from following, and she turns around when she hears BJ’s, “Hey!”
“Stop that!” she tells them. “You sit down and let the man make it right.”
“But —” the taller man says.
“He brought ’em here, didn’t he?” She gestures at BJ. “Come on, now.”
BJ skirts around the two men and lets the rush of adrenaline take him down the hall. It’s easier than thinking about the child — Clive, he’s pretty sure — and easier than wondering if maybe he shouldn’t go back to Los Angeles and try to work things out with Peg. He’s missed this: he’s missed the absolute high of responding to a medical emergency where every detail counted, and that’s the sole reason he’s in San Francisco now, in the hope of getting a position as a physician in an emergency room.
“What the hell is going on out there?” It’s a man’s voice, cranky and vaguely familiar, and BJ follows the nurse’s lead in ignoring it. She’s at a closet near the end of the hall, opening the door and pulling out a stretcher that no doubt saw combat duty. After fighting with it for a moment, she tilts it enough for BJ to grab it and head back up the hall.
Behind him, he hears the nurse say, “Child got hit by a car, Dr. Ben. We’re getting him now.”
“Take him straight to surgery,” he hears, and his heart skips a beat. It can’t be. Not here, not now, but the stretcher, the name and the voice all tell him the same thing, that after eight years, he and Dr. Benjamin Franklin Pierce have finally caught up with each other.
He hopes like hell he’s wrong.
~*~*~
The child’s name is Clarence, not Clive, and he’s been on the operating table for two hours while Hawkeye works to repair the damage. BJ handles anesthesia, something he hasn’t done since Korea, and it scares the hell out of him. Keeping a child under is tricky in the best of circumstances — those involving a real surgical suite and not a hodgepodge of donated equipment. His saving grace is that he doesn’t have to worry about being distracted by chatter, since Hawkeye isn’t talking to him beyond requesting vitals. When he saw BJ at one end of Clarence’s stretcher, the only thing he said was, “Suit up. I’ll need help.”
Hawkeye leaves as soon as he finishes closing up, presumably to speak with Mrs. Martin, and BJ isn’t sure if he wants Hawkeye to stay away or to come back and keep him company. Judging from the number of voices coming from the front, he thinks it will be a while before he sees Hawkeye again.
BJ, on the other hand, doesn’t leave the boy’s side and won’t unless someone is there to monitor his vital signs. Children are particularly vulnerable after general anesthesia, and BJ doesn’t want to compound the damage he’s already done. He settles in for a long wait and wonders briefly when he’ll have time to call Taylor to let him know he won’t be able to interview that day.
A short while later, it’s apparent that he was wrong about when he’d see Hawkeye again.
“Trust me, if Clarence had to get run over by anyone, you were lucky it was Dr. Hunnicutt,” Hawkeye says. They’re standing just outside the door to the small surgery room, and BJ can hear every word. “Now listen up. Clarence is still asleep, so he won’t know you’re there.”
“I understand. I just want to see him.”
“You will, but I want to prepare you, okay? He’s covered in bandages, and he looks bad. You’re gonna have to trust me when I say he only looks bad. He came through surgery like a champion, and I have every reason to believe he’ll be okay by the time school starts again. Got it?”
“Yes, yes,” she answers, impatience finally breaking through anxiety. Mrs. Martin pushes past Hawkeye and pauses at the sight of BJ. He’s still in scrubs and has a clipboard in hand to chart Clarence’s recovery on a legal pad. If the clinic has actual post-surgery forms, BJ hasn’t been able to find them.
“Beej.” Hawkeye jerks his head a little, and BJ gets up to make room for Mrs. Martin. “Jane, you can have five minutes. Give a shout if you need me.”
BJ leaves with a last look behind him. Mrs. Martin acknowledged his existence for only as long as it took her to move around him to get to the chair, and Christ, he hates that. He hates knowing that he caused anyone that level of pain, let alone another parent. He’s not entirely sure he could be so calm if Erin were the one on the table and he were confronted with the person who put her there.
Once BJ is in the hallway, Hawkeye closes the door behind him. “How’s he doing?”
“Fine. Blood pressure’s still a little low, but it’s been going up pretty steadily in the last ten minutes,” BJ says. He puts his hand on the back of his neck and squeezes in an effort to release some of the tension that’s built up over the last four hours. It’s a lost cause, but he can’t help himself.
“Okay. Fine. Leave your scrubs where you found ’em.”
“What?” BJ blinks.
“I can’t afford to replace any right now, so leave them where you found them.” Hawkeye looks at the wall behind BJ’s shoulder; as far as BJ can tell, Hawkeye hasn’t looked at him since identifying him shortly before surgery. “I asked Ernest to keep an eye on your car, so it should still be in one piece.”
Hawkeye turns to leave, but BJ grabs his arm before he takes a step. “Wait. That’s it? Leave my scrubs and don’t let the door hit me on the ass?”
There’s a brief pause before Hawkeye finally looks him in the eye. BJ takes a step back, because while he’s seen Hawkeye pissed off before, he’s never, ever seen Hawkeye this close to losing it completely.
“Got it in one.” Hawkeye starts to walk away, but then he stops and turns again. “And if you’re feeling at all guilty about nearly killing Clarence, go ahead and leave a generous donation with Nancy.”
BJ stands there for a full minute before going to the changing room. He’d like nothing more than to take off in what he’s wearing and finally get to St. Luke’s for his interview, but in the end, he changes into his street clothes before writing a check for five hundred dollars and leaving a note for Mrs. Martin to let her know how to reach him. He hates this, hates leaving while Clarence is still asleep and at risk in recovery. But what he hates more is the possibility that he’ll take a punch at Pierce if he sees him again.
~*~*~
He gets back to his hotel by nine o’clock that night with a job offer in hand. Taylor wasn’t happy to hear about the accident, but he was thrilled that BJ stayed to help with the treatment. BJ thinks Taylor might consider using the incident as a fundraiser down the road, but he’ll deal with that when and if it happens. Meanwhile, all he wants is a long, hot bath to rinse off the memory of the day.
Too bad the bath will have to wait. When he gets inside his room, Pierce is asleep, sprawled on one of the armchairs. BJ takes off his jacket then wanders over to him and kicks his leg. Pierce wakes up with a jerk of his body and a glare, which is too bad for him, because BJ is the one who has glaring privileges.
“What are you doing here?”
He nods at a piece of paper on the table. “You didn’t sign the check.”
“There was a time when you signed my name better than I did.” The forgeries ended up on surgical reports mostly, though on one occasion it was a letter to Peg that BJ couldn’t write himself.
“Just sign it, would you? We’re running low on donations this month, and you running over Clarence this morning didn’t help any.”
BJ takes a long, hard look at Pierce and thinks he’s never seen him this bad, not even after a thirty-hour stint in surgery. The bags under his eyes have bags, and unless BJ is greatly mistaken, his hair is a hell of a lot more gray than it should be. Unwillingly, BJ wonders when the last time was that Pierce had a good night’s sleep, and once he thinks that, BJ finds himself forgiving Pierce for his earlier behavior.
His voice far too gentle for the words he uses, BJ asks, “What the hell is wrong with you?”
The tension disappears from Hawkeye like it was never there. All that’s left is a tired man who looks old beyond his years.
“Just sign the check, would you?”
“No.” Hawkeye starts to stand up, but BJ pushes him back down again. “Tell me. What the hell are you doing there? You’re the most talented surgeon I’ve ever seen, including the last eight years, and you’re just wasting away in a tiny clinic where no one knows.”
“Jane Martin knows,” he says, pushing his way up despite BJ’s efforts to keep him seated.
He’s almost to the door before BJ catches him and hauls him back around. “Damn it, Hawkeye!”
In an instant, their positions are reversed, and BJ is up against the door with Hawkeye hard against his body, and Christ! How the hell could he have forgotten this? How could he have just let their friendship slide, knowing that this was always a possibility and sometimes a fact? Peg, he thinks. I forgot for Peg’s sake. And Erin’s. But Peg doesn’t count anymore, and Erin will never know.
BJ waits for the next part, the inevitable part whenever Hawkeye had him pinned, but it doesn’t come. Instead, Hawkeye inhales harshly and pulls himself together with a visible effort before taking half a step back.
“Sign the check and mail it,” he tells BJ, his voice breathy and not at all under control.
“No.”
“Fuck you.”
Hawkeye tries to get out the door, but this time, BJ is the one doing the pinning. For a moment, he can’t understand why that’s so odd, but then he remembers: Hawkeye was always the one to start this, never BJ. By unspoken agreement, the fiction was that it didn’t count as infidelity if BJ wasn’t an active participant. For the first time, BJ is ashamed of not owning up to the role he played.
“Maybe later.”
BJ captures Hawkeye’s face between his hands and kisses him before he can stop to wonder if this is a good idea or a bad idea. His body puts in a definite vote for good, because it’s been too damn long since he was this close to anyone. Peg hasn’t touched him in over a year, and even before that, she’d lost her enthusiasm. Hawkeye, if his lips and dick are to be believed, is more than willing to get with the program.
The contact, the warmth, the need, the want — they’re all feeding off each other and driving BJ to a passion he hasn’t felt since the early days of his marriage. He has to get at more skin, and is vaguely aware that he’s mauling Hawkeye’s shirt in an effort to do so. Hawkeye’s chest is just as he remembered it — smooth, slightly curved muscle covered by smoother skin with a hint of chest hair. The contrast is enough to drive him to distraction as he fights with Hawkeye’s tie to get it off, off, off.
His hips are moving faster and faster and faster, and they’re still not moving as fast as Hawkeye’s. They’re close, so damn close to completion that he can barely believe it when Hawkeye pushes him hard enough that BJ stumbles and nearly ends up on the floor.
“I’m not doing this again,” Hawkeye says. He looks like a complete wreck, with his shirt half open and his tie undone. At some point along the line, BJ managed to unzip Hawkeye’s pants, and his dick, still covered by the white cotton of his shorts, is pushing through the opening.
“You have got to be kidding me.” BJ takes a step forward but stops when Hawkeye holds up his hand.
“No. We played this game before, and to hell with you if you think I’ll be your safety valve for your marriage.”
“What?” BJ thinks back over the day and realizes Hawkeye doesn’t know. How could he? They’ve barely spoken all day. “No.”
“Just — just sign the damn check. The clinic needs the money.” Hawkeye sounds defeated, and BJ hates like hell that he put that note in his voice.
“Peg kicked me out.” Hawkeye blinks at him. “Six months ago. She — it didn’t work out for us. That’s why I’m here. I’m moving back.”
“Oh.” Hawkeye starts putting himself to rights again, and BJ doesn’t try to stop him. There may be a time for them in the future, but right now, there’s too much left unsaid between them.
“Why are you here? Why not in Maine?” BJ has to know, can’t let this night pass without understanding what the hell went wrong for Hawkeye.
Hawkeye doesn’t look up from buttoning his shirt. “Strange thing about hospitals. They don’t like to hire doctors who had to be locked up in the funny farm.”
“What?”
Hawkeye looks up at that, a nasty gleam in his eye. BJ remembers it all too well and was always grateful when it was directed at someone else. “You remember, don’t you, Beej? The day I went nuts because that woman killed her baby to keep it quiet?”
“Hawkeye —”
“Oh wait! That was when you could barely look me in the eye. No wonder you’re having a hard time recalling it.”
“Stop it!” BJ gets in his face again. “Just stop it!”
“What the hell do you care?” Hawkeye stands perfectly still and leaves it up to BJ to explain himself.
Or not. It’s tempting to sign the check and send Hawkeye on his way, but BJ is tired of losing the people he loves. He’s especially tired of being directly responsible for them leaving.
“I care,” he says, knowing he’s leaving himself open to whatever attacks Hawkeye cares to make. God knows he deserves it. “I always cared.”
“Funny way you had of showing it.” Hawkeye finishes buttoning up his shirt and stuffs his dick, still hard and leaking a little, back in his pants. “How many of my letters did you ignore? Five? Six?”
“I was an asshole.”
“On that, we agree.” Hawkeye moves past BJ, walking a little stiffly, to get to the mirror so he can redo his tie. “I needed a friend when I got back. Only you weren’t around.”
“I’m —” He’s sorry. He knows it, and Hawkeye knows it. What neither of them knows is whether BJ can explain himself. He gives it a try. “When I got back, I panicked.”
“Had second thoughts about our little episodes of deviant behavior, did you?” Hawkeye is very precisely lining up the ends of his tie.
“I had second thoughts about exactly who I was married to.”
The words come out before BJ realizes that’s what he’s going to say, and as soon as he hears them, he knows they’re exactly right. Hawkeye must, too, because he pauses now.
After a moment, he tells BJ, “Can’t have been that difficult. Peg is the one in all your wedding photos.”
“But you were the one I had a life with.”
They stand there for a long time, BJ catching Hawkeye’s gaze in the mirror. This is the right answer, and judging by what he sees on Hawkeye’s face, they’re probably both on the same track again.
“Fuck.” Hawkeye’s hands drop to his side, leaving his tie unknotted. He doesn’t move when BJ approaches.
“I’m sorry,” BJ whispers to the back of Hawkeye’s neck. “I’m sorry I was a lousy husband.”
A spark of the old Hawkeye emerges, and he asks, “Is this what you say to all your wives?”
BJ laughs. It’s shaky, but it’s real, and so is what they have together. He wraps his arms around Hawkeye and pulls him closer, resting his chin on his shoulder so they can look at each other in the mirror.
It’s not perfect — it never was — but it’s better than it ever was with Peg, because there are no lies between them. They’ve seen each other at their best and their worst and every way in between, and they’ve still managed to reach this place, this new beginning. Maybe, just maybe, it will be enough.