HERE IT IS, FOLKS!!!!!
a multichapter mash fic!! so excited. it's been a while since i've done a multichapter fic and i'm so amped about this one!
summary: While Hawkeye and BJ are out visiting another MASH unit to show them the clamp they invented, Hawkeye falls ill. Despite BJ's worries, they head back to the 4077th--only to come under fire on the way, wrecking the Jeep and injuring BJ's leg so badly he can't walk on it. Now, unable to walk and trapped in enemy territory in the heat of summer, BJ must rely on Hawkeye to get them to safety despite a worsening fever and declining physical state. Will rescue come for them in time?
please, please let me know what you think!! <3
YAAYAY I STAYED UP LATE TO FINISH THIS!! CHAPTER TWO!! PLEASE TELL ME IF YOU LIKE!!
The pain takes a few beats longer to wake than BJ does. When he opens his eyes, he wastes his last painless seconds on confusion. Why is he lying on the ground? Why is Hawkeye shaking his shoulder, calling his name so desperately?
“BJ!” he implores, tone fearful and hushed. “BJ, can you hear me?”
“Hawk,” he replies, then it hits him. First, the memory: the shelling, the crash. Then, the pain. He hisses and instinctively tries to curl toward the wound on his leg, but Hawkeye stops him.
“Don’t move yet.”
He looks down to assess the damage and realizes why he’s intervening: a huge spot of blood in the middle of his shin, right where the worst of the pain is. By the time his head is clear enough to think of anything other than the initial panic, Hawkeye is tearing off his own jacket and tying it tightly around the wound.
“Were you hurt?”
“No, I’m fine. We have to move,” he says urgently.
“I can’t—”
“I know,” he curtails. “I’m going to help you.”
In his furious need to get to safety, BJ doesn’t even think about whether he can handle that. Hawkeye wasn’t hurt, and they’re not safe where they are. He nods, allowing Hawkeye to drape his arm over his shoulder and hoist him upright. It hurts so much he can’t suppress a groan of pain.
“You okay?”
BJ nods.
“Let’s just get out of here.”
Within 30 seconds of rising, the sensation of heat radiating off Hawkeye’s body reminds him of something that panic had made him put on the back burner: the fever. He’s burning up, sweating and trembling already. Is it fear, or fatigue?
“You’re shaking,” he points out.
“Freezing,” Hawk replies. He’d been dreading that possibility. Nerves and weakness, they might have been able to deal with, but it’s so hot that BJ’s shirt is damp with sweat. He shouldn’t be cold. His fever is going up.
“We’ll get you more aspirin as soon as we’re out of the line of fire. Just hang on a few more minutes.”
They don’t walk far—BJ isn’t sure that Hawkeye can. It’s just enough to get them out of the way of the shelling. While he’s still fearful that they could be hurt, they can only push so far without fever reducers and pain medication. Misery is clear on Hawkeye’s face, in his taught posture, in the way he hasn’t said a word since they started moving.
“Okay,” BJ says when they stop under cover of heavy brush, Hawkeye panting hard, “okay. Take a breather.” He fishes around in the med bag that Hawkeye had thankfully had the wherewithal to grab and removes the medicine and a flask of water. “Here. Drink.”
Hawkeye takes the water and allows himself a few sips, then hands it over to BJ.
“Come on, more than that. You’ve got a bad fever. You know you’re dehydrated.”
“And you’ve lost blood,” Hawkeye reasons. “You need to drink, too.”
To satisfy his concern, and because he’s right, BJ allows himself a few good gulps, careful not to drain it dry. They’ll need to make it last. It could be several hours before anyone even thinks to start looking for them.
“Take this for the fever,” BJ commands, dropping two aspirin into his hand, “and this for the pain.” Hawkeye shakes his head, placing the pain pills back into BJ’s palm as he swallows his antipyretics.
“You need these more than me.”
“I’m not the one dragging a body all across creation. We both know you’re hurting.”
“Yeah,” he snaps, “but you’re hurting more. I’m not taking them, so you might as well.”
“God, you’re impossible,” he says, but he knows. They both know. He’s going to take the pill because Hawkeye is right, the pain is unbearable. And there’s certainly nothing he can do to change his mind. No matter how unbearable Hawkeye’s pain is, BJ’s pain will come first. He swallows the pills. “Happy?”
“Thrilled,” he deadpans. “You’re hurt, I’m sick, we’re lost, the Jeep is wrecked, and Korea is exploding around us. What more could a guy ask for?”
“We need to find somewhere safe to wait for rescue. This underbrush is nice and all, but it doesn’t scream ‘home.’”
Hawkeye sighs.
“I know what you’re going to say, but break it to me gently.”
“Unfortunately,” BJ says reluctantly, regretfully, guiltily, “that means you’re about to have probably the worst time of your life.”
“Now, tell me the good news.”
BJ hesitates. There is no good news, not really. Anything he could think of would trivialize the sacrifice he’s making. What, he’s supposed to be happy for the sunny day?
“I’m not gonna leave your side.” He means it so literally that Hawkeye has to laugh.
“Right. You’re my right hand man.”
Hawkeye tosses BJ’s arm over his own and hoists him to his feet. This close, he can feel the warmth radiating off him insidiously. He shouldn’t even be out in this heat, let alone exerting himself in it.
“Go as slow as you need to,” he says, like it’s some kind of consolation. Another shell hitting nearby undermines the kind sentiment, forcing them hurrying off toward the thicker underbrush.
BJ wants to say a lot of things. He wants to apologize, but that will only corner Hawkeye into saying it’s okay, and not doing that is one of the only small mercies he can give him right now. The space to complain without feeling like he’s got to comfort the person who’s literally leaning on him. Emotional strength is just about the only kind he can offer until they find somewhere to hide and wait for rescue.
He wants to get Radar to start making calls and not stop until he reaches someone who can court marshal that asshole Colonel for gross negligence. When they do finally get home, he’s going to make sure he doesn’t get away with sending them on their way like this. Colonel Potter is going to agree, he knows it. Hell, everyone in the 4077th is going to want to have a word or two with this guy.
He’s physically restraining himself from asking how Hawkeye is holding up. He’s already asked twice, and they’ve been walking for less than 15 minutes. It wouldn’t be so bad if they were chatting, but Hawkeye is silent. Unusually, terrifyingly silent. When BJ does try to engage him just to make sure he’s still lucid, he tries to keep it simple, and Hawkeye replies in turn. He points out rocks and holes on the ground, which Hawkeye avoids. He points out bugs and clouds, which Hawkeye ignores. He talks to him and talks to him and talks to him, hoping desperately to distract him from the misery of all this, but it just makes his suffering all the more obvious when, after about twenty minutes, Hawkeye asks him to please be quiet because his head hurts and he needs to focus on his feet.
Ten minutes later, said feet begin dragging. Every so often, he won’t lift one foot high enough, and the toe will catch on the ground, causing stumbles that start almost imperceptible and slowly become more dramatic the longer they walk. God, he wants to offer another break, wants to be able to tell him to have a rest, that BJ will take the wheel for a little while.
While he’s spiralling, he feels Hawkeye stumble once more, but this time, it’s with the threat of losing their balance. He throws out a hand and steadies himself on the trunk of a tree, but just as BJ expects him to quickly regain his balance enough to catch him before he falls, he buckles forward and gags. BJ doesn’t have enough time to react and sways forward to keep from falling straight on his face. Unfortunately, that requires the use of both feet on the ground, and he can’t bite back the harsh grunt of agony at the pain that explodes through his leg.
For a moment, they’re both incapacitated. BJ ends up falling on his ass, doubling over clutching his injury. It only distracts him for a minute, though, because there’s something more important he needs to worry about: Hawkeye, who’s still losing the battle with his stomach. Because he hasn’t eaten in the past few days, there’s nothing to bring up but water and, worryingly, the fever reducers. They haven’t been down long enough to make a dent in his temperature.
When he’s finally done, Hawkeye sinks to the ground using the trunk of the tree, visibly shaking, and puts his head between his knees. BJ shuffles over on his knees and places a hand on his damp back.
“Talk to me,” BJ says quietly. “You okay?”
“Sorry,” he replies, forcing his gaze to meet BJ’s. “Didn’t mean to push you.”
“It wasn’t your fault. You didn’t answer my question.”
“I’m okay. Did I hurt you?”
“No. It hurt, but no harm done.” Hawkeye sits up straighter, seemingly a little less lightheaded. “You really need those fever reducers.”
“I tried.”
“Can we try again? Jean sent us with food. Maybe it won’t be so hard on your stomach if you eat something.”
As much as he doesn’t want to, Hawkeye knows he’s right. He’s nauseated, BJ can see it in his posture. Every move he makes is slow and deliberate so as not to jostle his head or his stomach. BJ digs through their pack to find a sandwich, ham and cheese, and tears the bread into smaller pieces.
“This is the best we’ve got.” Hawkeye tentatively eats two bites, then swallows another dose of pills. “We’re gonna sit for a little while, see if we can’t get those to stay down.”
“You should eat, too.”
While he’s not exactly hungry, either, it’ll do them no good if both of them collapse, so he takes the other sandwich. The ham is dry and the bread is soggy. He thinks he sees a slice of American cheese, but he can’t taste it.
“How long do you think the Colonel will wait to send someone looking for us?”
“The Colonel? Radar’s going to send a chopper if I keep you out a minute past curfew.” Despite everything, Hawkeye chuckles. “Really, though. We left at 11:00, and so they’ll be expecting us around dinner, or a little before. We’re going to be home by midnight, I promise.”
It’s a promise he has no control over, but Hawkeye needs to hear it. Wandering around without an end in sight is too big, too terrifying to fathom, and BJ is firing on all cylinders. He can’t imagine what it’s like for Hawkeye, who has already been pushed well past the point of collapse.
“Right,” he agrees. There’s no telling if he’s humoring him or taking it to heart. Probably something in between.
“How’s the stomach feeling?”
Hawkeye shuts his eyes and leans his head back against the tree.
“We’re at odds,” he admits.
“Who’s winning?”
“So far, it’s Love-15.”
“Deep breaths.”
Hawkeye forces himself to his feet, heavily using the trunk of the tree. He’s more balanced on his two feet than he is standing, like leaning too far one way or another will send him toppling back ot the ground.
“Eyes on the ball, coach,” he weakly teases as he drapes BJ’s arm over his shoulders once more and takes on his weight, steadier than he looks. The light tremor he feels isn’t his knees knocking, but his fevered body shivering with chills. In what would should that be good news?
Before the tree is even out of their sight, Hawkeye vomits up the second dose of meds, plus the water. He offers to try again, desperate to feel better, or maybe just to ease BJ’s mind, but that's not a good idea. It's better to hold down a little water than throw up a bunch of it. Either way, he's going to end up wildly dehydrated by the end of this. Too many concerns are coming at him too fast to rank them in order of importance, but dehydration is certainly in the top three. Below being captured or killed by enemy soldiers, but a close second. All Hawkeye can do is placate him with small sips and the promise to take a few more later.
God, it's painful. All of it. His foot, but that's background noise by now. His head, from the heat and the dehydration. He's drinking less, deluding himself that something will change and Hawkeye will find it in him to drink the whole flask. If that happens, he would hate to have drank the whole thing. Most of all, his heart hurts. The sound of heavy breathing, labored and uneven, right in his ear, is a constant reminder of just how hard he's pushing him.
BJ has never been one to rely on others. When Peg got a job, it had sent him into a frenzy. She's the mother of his child, for God's sake, and he's halfway around the world. The last thing she should be doing is burning the candle at the other end. The promise he'd made to her when they'd gotten married had been the easiest he'd ever made. For better or for worse. If, in the worst of times, he can roll over in bed in the morning and see her face, how hard could it be to get up? For richer, or for poorer. Well, even when he was in med school and they were eating a dinner she'd managed to scrounge up out of the canned goods in their pantry, even when they were both students and had no income between them and had to save up to see a movie at the theater, even when he'd worked doubles for a month to save up to buy her a ring: the longer he held her, the richer he felt. In sickness and in health. When she was so nauseous from morning sickness that she couldn't even speak, she reached for him, and she didn't have to reach far, because he was already reaching back. All that had felt easy, natural. The guidelines had been laid out for him. He never had to wonder, not with Peg. Never with Peg.
Hawkeye stops, moans, breaking him from his thoughts.
"What is it?" BJ asks, hands hovering, waiting to figure out what to soothe. "What's wrong?"
“Just whining,” he says.
BJ can't tell how he's supposed to take that. He's not whining, not in the slightest, but is he supposed to treat him as if he is? Chastise him and move on? It's what Charles would do. Demand transparency? Colonel Potter would. Force him to rest, even if they don't have time? He can practically hear Radar's soft voice coaxing him to shut his eyes.
“Don’t even know where we’re going.”
"Hawk, you're the legs of this operation," he decides upon. "We go where you lead. You decide what's best."
It might be the wrong move. BJ is trying to shoulder the weight of the world right now, and in trying to give Hawkeye a little power, he might be making him feel the same pressure.
"What's best," he repeats incredulously. He locks eyes with BJ. "What's best?"
For better and for worse. For richer or for poorer. In sickness and in health. Well, this is the worst of all three.
"I don't know," he admits. "Couldn't have less of a clue."
"Then, point."
BJ thinks. It's not thinking, really: it's guessing. Taking a shot in the dark. Hoping for a stroke of luck. So he looks at Hawkeye's feet and gestures in the direction they're facing.
"That way."
Hawkeye nods. Because his hands are occupied, BJ uses his sleeve to wipe the sweat from his brow, careful not to linger long enough to take in the heat. It will only spike his anxiety, and he already knows how bad this is. He doesn’t need to spiral.
And they take off.
As much as he needs to get Hawkeye out of the day's intense sun, the dark of the night presents even more of a problem. They've already seen snakes, already been fired at by enemy soldiers. They're hopelessly lost. Daylight is their only defense against a new set of horrors they haven't yet prepared for, and they're losing it quickly.
For the next half hour, Hawkeye's complaints escalate. At first, it's just the pain in his head and his body, but soon, the nausea becomes unbearable, causing him to stop twice more to dry heave into the bushes. BJ can do nothing but rub his back and tell him it's okay. It's not long after that that dizziness begins to become a concern. Though he nods when BJ asks if he can go on, they both know he's hitting his limit. Running out of steam. It's amazing he's lasted this long.
So, it's no surprise when he collapses proper. Without a word, he stumbles forward, this time not even catching himself on his hands and knees. He hits the ground hard, both of them do, but BJ at least manages to catch himself on his hands and knees. Hawkeye, on the other hand, lands face-first in the dirt, silent and still.
"Hawkeye!" BJ cries, turning him onto his back and patting his cheek. Terrified, he places his ear to his chest--he's breathing, if fast and labored--and two fingers to his neck--pulse, but it's rapid and bounding. Walking side by side, he hasn't been able to get a good glance at him in a while, and he looks so bad it's shocking even knowing how sick he is. Pallor and a harsh flush were to be expected, but even his lips are pale. The sun has burned his cheeks and nose so badly that he's worried about adding sun poisoning to the mix. Even his eyes are puffy with exhaustion and illness. Perhaps worst of all, his forehead is dry when he pushes away the hair that's plastered there.
"Come on, Hawk. You can't sleep just yet."
But he's not sleeping. He's knocked out, and it's not going to get better until they can treat his illness. God, what's he going to do if he can't wake him?
Without a distraction, anxiety begins to creep in. It presses on his chest, tightening an invisible band that keeps him from taking a deep breath. Again, he presses his fingers to Hawkeye's pulse, just to remind himself he has one.
He pours some of the water from their flask onto his own sleeve and dabs it against Hawkeye's face and the back of his neck, hoping that the sensation will be enough to rouse him. Eventually, it works, his head rolling to one side as he opens his eyes. BJ puts a hand to his chest to keep him from trying to sit up too early.
"Ow," he says. Now, on top of everything that already hurt, his chin is bruised and bleeding. With his damp sleeve, he gently wipes away the blood, wincing when Hawkeye does.
"I know, I know. Take it easy. Remember where you are?"
"Hell," he replies. BJ smiles slightly.
"Close enough. How'd we get here?"
"Abandoned hope and entered."
"Don't abandon anything just yet. It's still early. Not even dark, see?" BJ squeezes his hand. The scrapes on his own palm sting. "Look over there. Do you see what I see?"
He sits up and looks, squinting against the setting sun. A long beat passes while his eyes scan for it, but when he sees it, he doesn't react the way BJ had hoped. Instead of relief, he collapses back against the dirt with a look of dismay on his face.
"It's so far, Beej," he nearly whines.
"Nothing compared to how far you've come already," he points out. "And there might be someone there who can help us."
"Everything's spinning. I'm gonna faint if I stand up."
"We can rest here for a while, but we have to get there by sundown." Hawkeye throws an arm over his eyes.
"I can't."
Yes," he argues, "you can."
"How?"
BJ thinks. How, indeed?
"You're going to tell a joke."
For a long moment, Hawkeye doesn't say anything at all.
"A joke?"
"Yes. What, are you out?"
"I don't see how that’s going to help."
"I've known you a long time, and I know you well. You've pulled off more impossible things than anyone I've ever met, and you know how? You make it a joke."
At that, Hawkeye barks out a harsh laugh.
"Right," he agrees. "Yeah, okay. But my head's killing me."
"I know, buddy. Take your time. You want a little water?" He nods, taking the flask and sipping. "There you go. Think you could sit up?"
"Every muscle in my body hurts. Help me up."
"Of course." Slowly, carefully, BJ eases him upright, holding him steady while he gets his bearings. "That okay?"
"I've never been so tired in my life."
"I'm so sorry. What can I do?"
"I've got a knock-knock joke for you, but I'm exhausted. You're going to have to start it."
"Okay," he says. "Knock knock."
"Who's there?" They both sit there in silence, BJ waiting for the punch line and Hawkeye waiting for... well, he's not sure what, yet. The silence is startling, skyrocketing his heart rate. He's looking right at him, but not responding. "Hawk? Who's there?"
"How should I know? You're the one knocking."
BJ stares.
"That's it?"
"Mhm."
He smiles. Not because it's funny, but because it's so, so not. Then, he laughs. That laugh starts Hawkeye laughing, and soon, they're both bent forward, leaning against one another in tears.
"That's your joke?"
"I didn't say I was touring with it," he giggles. "If you wanted something good, you should have brought props."
"I'll try to think ahead next time." He can't resist pressing his mostly-dry sleeve to Hawkeye's chin to remove the residual dirt and blood, but really, all it does it knock loose the clot that's trying to form. A gentle touch isn't going to be enough to help him, this time. "Think you could stand?"
"Gotta try." BJ does most of the lifting, because that much he can do, but that first step they take toward the house is all Hawk. Sheer, pure determination, desperation, inspiration. All he has is a goal to hit and a direction to walk in.
And someone to walk for.
By the time they reach the house, the sun has set. The last little bit had been navigated in the dark. If BJ had taken his eyes off of it, they mightn't have found the place, but while Hawkeye stared down at his own feet to ensure they didn't trip, BJ kept his focus straight ahead.
"Hello?" BJ calls as they near the open doorway. To his dismay, no one answers. "Anyone here?"
"It's empty, Beej."
Well, it's not idea, but better than finding out that any angry, trigger-happy soldiers are using it as some kind of meeting point. Hawkeye walks them through the doorway and helps BJ ease into a wooden chair sitting at a table. It's sad, this kind of thing. This house was built for a family. There are four chairs. Two parents, probably, and two children should be living here. Maybe even a pet or two. Instead, it's abandoned, fled and totally unlivable because of the war. Maybe, some day, when this is all over, someone will make it a home again.
For now, it's comfortable enough to stay until rescue finds them, which will hopefully be sooner rather than later.
It's cooler in here than it had been out there. To BJ, that’s welcome, but Hawkeye has been shivering on and off, and to BJ's dread, it's picked up again.
"Give me your jacket," Hawkeye demands, kneeling beside his feet.
"You can’t bundle up. Your fever's too high."
"It's not for me. Take off your pants."
"Is that for you?"
"I need to," he trails off for a moment, overshooting reaching for their emergency pack and losing his balance, "to check your leg."
"Come on, Hawk. You've done enough and earned a rest. I know you're tired. Just lie down."
"Gotta see the damage." He's insistent no matter how many times BJ tries to tell him it's okay, so he gives up and obeys. Better to let him exert himself for a few minutes now than get him all worked up trying to hold him down. While he shrugs out of his jacket, Hawkeye cuts open his pant let with the pocket knife from the bag, then uses it to shred a strip off his jacket.
Honestly, it's worse than he'd anticipated. Though he's been pretty sure of a break since he woke up, he hadn't really felt the cuts around it, some of which are pretty deep, one in particular that's actually still bleeding a little. It makes him wonder if Hawkeye took similar damage, but he's not obviously bleeding from anywhere, and that's definitely not going to be their biggest concern.
Hawkeye pours antiseptic onto the strip of fabric and dabs it on the worst of the cuts, deliriously whispering apologies as he does so. It kills him to know he feels guilty about hurting him at a time like this.
"Please, Hawkeye, just lie back. I can do this. You don't need to worry."
He doesn't stop until the wound is clean and bandaged, even though, by the time he finishes, his hands are heavy and clumsy. It's amazing he's managed to be so delicate with almost no coordination and with his eyes half closed. Finally, he can hardly hold his head up any longer, and BJ helps him lie flat.
"Beej," he mumbles, semi-conscious.
"Yeah?"
"I don't think this is the flu."
He chuckles bitterly.
"Me, neither." Since he's had hours of silence with which to get carried away in thought, he's been rolling the differential diagnoses around in his mind all day. Myalgia, nausea, vomiting, severe fatigue, teeth-chattering chills, and a blazing fever, all far too extreme to be attributed to a run of the mill virus.
"Think it's something tropical. Malaria?"
"It's on my short list."
"Hm." He's forcing his eyes open. "Never felt this bad in my life."
For someone whose entire job is to care for sick people, BJ rarely feels this helpless in the face of someone else's misery. But what can he do? What do they have? Fever reducers he can't take, water he can't keep down, and a hard floor to rest upon? What the hell good does any of that do him?
"Just close your eyes."
"You gonna sleep, too?"
"Not much else to do."
Seemingly satisfied with that answer, Hawkeye finally allows himself to slip into the unconsciousness he's been fighting all day.
Gawd I've been checking every daaaay and today was so hard T^T so this was so welcome
