I’m Here For A Good Time Not A Long Time @almostpleasantrebel - Tumblr Blog

I feel like Hawkeye would say something funny about the mortal wound he’s just received and is about to immediately die of and that fucks everybody up more than him in agony would have. Maybe not even a full joke just a little “op!” sound and maybe somebody else laughed at it because they didn’t realize what just happened and now they have to live with that. Something something and then fucking about it? Take it away, tumblr user wildehacked (- @try-set-me-on-fire)

FUCK that's evil. I love it, oh my god, thank you for this gift!!!!! CN: gore, major character death, bad idea sex, you get the picture * There was a sniper on the hillside, and they were taking cover in the mess tent—but that had happened at least three times in the last year, and in a strange way Margaret had stopped thinking it meant any of them would die. She was still scared and angry and tired, but she was angry about the work it meant they'd have to do later; she was scared for the wounded waiting for them in pre-op who might die because they couldn't get Hawkeye and BJ to surgery; she was tired of being angry and scared. She was holding a dinner tray over her head and hiding behind a table, but she was also thinking about the mess Potter and Charles were probably making in the OR with only Nakahara there to try and attend to both of them.

There was the familiar drone of an approaching chopper, and Hawkeye gave a punched-out sigh. "Here come the conquering heroes."

A rain of bullets fell down from the sky into the cesspool, then shifted closer to the sniper's actual location, loud and furious and altogether welcome, in her opinion.

"All that for one kid with a rifle," BJ murmured.

"Would you rather be stuck here under fire all day?" she asked him acidly.

"Now, darling, let's not fight," Hawkeye said, and put his dinner tray down on the ground. He stood up and offered Margaret his hand; she let him pull her up off the floor.

"Who's fighting," BJ asked, brushing off his knees.

The chopper was still loosing bullets—unnecessarily, she thought. The sniper was certainly dead already. The rain of bullets swung back towards the camp; a few banged off the side of a parked Jeep.

"Hey!" Hawkeye shouted, obviously more to them than to the helicopter. He was leaning against the table, nearly sitting in the mashed potato tray. "Watch where you're swinging that thing!"

"Or at least buy us dinner first," BJ put in. More gunfire, then the loud noise of the chopper almost right overhead.

"They just saved our lives, you needn't be obscene," Margaret shouted as archly as she could over the racket, and then there was a little lull, and Hawkeye made an obscene sound—an mmmf kind of a noise—and clapped a hand to his inner thigh.

BJ giggled and Margaret rolled her eyes. It looked so much like a lewd joke; it sounded exactly like one. She was standing next to him, and her body put the pieces together before her brain did. Maybe she’d heard the bullet go through the cloth of the tent, maybe she’d heard it hit him. Maybe her body just knew what it felt like to stand next to a dying man; either way, she reached out and caught him in the split-second before she knew something was wrong.

Blood was pouring out of his hand. That was the femoral.

"BJ," she screamed, but he was already there, helping her push Hawkeye back onto the table, sending trays of food crashing to the ground.

"I need to get to the artery," BJ was shouting, and Margaret was shouting for help, bunching up a tablecloth to put pressure against the wound. Hawkeye soaked through the tablecloth while Margaret was screaming at the nearest corpsman for hemostatic gauze, an arterial clamp, and a tourniquet, although the bullet was so far up his thigh she didn't know if a tourniquet would be possible. At one point she heard Hawkeye give a ragged cry.

By the time she ran back to the table with a fistful of gauze, an arterial clamp, and two corspmen carrying a stretcher, BJ was drenched in blood up to the elbows, hand shoved between Hawkeye's legs—pinching the artery shut with his bare fingers—and Hawkeye was limp and chalk-white under him.

They couldn't control the bleeding long enough to get him to the OR. He died on the table about a minute later, with BJ's hand still in his leg. Margaret knew what was going to happen a few seconds before BJ did, so she was watching Hawkeye's face. She was crying without blinking, trying not to miss it; to be there for him. He was conscious, but he wasn't looking at her, just up at the ceiling. He looked surprised, right up until the light went out of his eyes. BJ wouldn't stop trying to save him for long minutes after it was over. No one else was stopping him—Colonel Potter was in surgery, and so was Charles, and she thought someone was getting Father Mulcahy, but he wasn't here yet—so Margaret had to be the one to pull him off. She didn’t know where the control came from. It was just that someone had to do it.

“BJ.”

“I need three pints of O negative,” he snapped at her.

“BJ. It’s done.” “It’s not done.” “Doctor,” she said, her voice breaking in spite of herself. “Doctor, please.” BJ stopped and looked down at the body. He started shaking. She pulled his hand out of the wound, and he didn’t stop her, trembling the whole time.

Father Mulcahy arrived by then, and BJ covered his face with his hands before she could stop him, getting Hawkeye’s blood everywhere. Father Mulcahy was bent over the body, and he was wearing his stole, and saying something in a language that wasn’t Latin. She tried to get the blood off BJ’s face with a napkin, but then someone was gently pulling her away from him, and it was Nakahara.

“You’re supposed to be in surgery,” she rasped, and Nakahara nodded and said “That’s been taken care of, major,” in her gentlest, most professional voice. She lost track of a few hours after that, except for snippets: Nakahara running a washcloth over her arms in the shower, while Margaret just stood there, stupidly watching the water at her feet turn red. You would think she’d never lost a colleague before. Colonel Potter’s hangdog face getting even sadder and older. Klinger weeping into a surgical mask. Someone reminding her that she was off duty effective immediately, for at least the next twenty-four hours.

At some point she was clean and dressed in her bathrobe, and no one else was there. Ambulances in the courtyard; all personnel. There were dying boys out there, and everyone was busy. She put her boots on and went to go help, but no one would let her get close. (“Oh, Christ,” Bigelow said. “Get out of here, Margaret.” Margaret was going to write her up for that. Bigelow was supposed to call her major.) Klinger physically shoved her back towards her tent.

This is a bad dream, she thought. This is the worst dream I’ve ever had. Surely I’m going to wake up soon.

She wandered away from the courtyard to the Swamp, in case she was right and Hawkeye was in there swilling gin and ready to cackle at her for imagining that his last words were a sex joke. There was a familiar lump under the covers, and her heart leapt in her chest. She was right. Thank god, thank god, she was right. It couldn’t have happened like that. It couldn’t have. He was here and he was going to laugh at her when she told him about her dream.

She sat on the edge of the bed and rested a hand on his hip, and he shuddered and flinched away, and she saw that it was BJ lying there.

“Oh,” she said, and burst into tears.

BJ’s arms came up around her. She was sobbing into his neck.

“I never even told him,” she said between sobs; she couldn’t get it out. She thought awfully of how she’d wasted that last half hour thinking about surgery and paperwork and troop movements and telling Hawkeye to be quiet. She could have held his hand. Why hadn’t she held his hand, at the end? She’d held so many other boys’ hands.

BJ’s embrace tightened around her, almost punishing.

“I’m sorry,” she said pathetically, and didn’t know if she meant it to him or to Hawkeye, but there wasn’t time to find out; BJ pulled back just far enough to grip her chin between his forefinger and thumb, moved her into place, and kissed her. It was a harsh kiss, wet with his tears as well as hers. She clutched at his shoulders, not sure if she meant to push him away or pull him closer, and he kissed the next sorry out of her mouth. BJ didn’t do this. She didn’t do this, not with BJ.

She opened her legs up and BJ pushed between them, shoving against her even fully dressed. She thought about the time she’d done this with Hawkeye; how they’d shouted at each other until they didn’t have the breath for it; how she’d been terrified out of her skin but safe against his body. Fine, she’d loved him. She’d loved him the whole time, and she’d never let herself admit it, and now it was too late. “I’m sorry,” she slurred into BJ’s neck.

BJ was terrifyingly quiet in bed. He wasn’t hard that she could feel, or at least not all the way there, but he pushed a hand up under her nightgown and rubbed her where it counted, a tense movement with her splayed open underneath him. It occurred to her how similar they must look to Hawkeye and BJ this morning, BJ’s hand working and working, Margaret lying there trembling, and the brutal rush of grief met his thumb and shocked a tiny orgasm out of her. It barely felt like pleasure, just a spike of feeling.

BJ kept rubbing at her, but she could tell that was it. She pulled his hand away and opened up his pants instead. He was only halfway there.

She spit into her hand and started tugging at him. BJ lay there completely rigid at first, his face turned away from her into the pillow, and when she went to kiss him again she saw that he was inhaling hard, taking deep lungfuls of—of Hawkeye’s smell. They were in Hawkeye’s bed.

She put her free hand on his face and stopped him, tilting him up and away from the pillow. As soon as she did, his face screwed up like a child’s, tight with agony like a boy in desperate need of morphine. His cock was hard in her hand, although she’d forgotten to keep moving, her fist loosely gripping him.

“Shh,” she said, and kissed his misery-crumpled cheek. “It’s alright,” she said, although it wasn’t. She knew how to give comfort; it was an instinct in her deeper than anything else. He gasped soundlessly. “I know you loved him too.”

He made a strangled sound, clutched her ribs, and came into her palm.

They held each other for a long time, covered in their own filth, not speaking. Eventually someone was going to come in here. Charles, getting home after surgery, or Potter or Klinger or someone else worried about the two of them. They wouldn’t want to be found like this, disgusting and half dressed in Hawkeye’s bed.

She thought about it, and then laughed against BJ’s chest.

“What,” he asked in a rasp.

“He’d,” she said, caught in a silent spasm of laughter. “He’d think this was so funny.”

She could practically hear the jokes he would have made: My best friend and my best girl, committing acts of pornographic valor in my honor! Now that’s a wake, ladies and gentlemen! I mean I certainly feel awake, don’t you? I'm rising up all over the place. Don’t feel blue, work blue! How’s that for obscene, Margaret? Like that, except funnier.

BJ choked. She was still laughing, totally helpless to stop, laughing like crying, or throwing up. She squinted up at him, and he was laughing, too.

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