Playing House

AN: I’m actually enjoying writing this, and I have two more chapters written, but I’m trying to root out most of the grammatical errors before I post them. This week I learned how to spell “stethoscope” . . .

Playing House
Chapter Five: Rising


BJ carefully extricated himself from the sleeping form on the couch, gently but hurriedly untangling his shirt from Hawkeye’s somnial grip.

The next loud ring of the phone invaded the house, seeming to search out every quiet corner and echo there. BJ swore under his breath, placing Hawkeye’s hands on his own regularly rising chest. He turned to stumble through the dim hallway, catching a glimpse out the window. Dawn had barely begun, the night-sky just touched by aquamarine that wouldn’t blossom into full color for another half hour.

The phone ejected another insistent ring just before his hand got to it. He leaned a shoulder against the wall as he grabbed the plastic receiver and pressed it against his ear.

“Hunnicutt,” he said simply. He listened to the hurried apology from the other end, then to the recitation of stats as he rubbed tiredly at his face.

“We’ll have to go in again.

“No, I want to do it.

“Give me thirty minutes.”

The handset clicked as hung it up, coiled cord swaying slightly. Pushing himself from the wall, he started up the stairs. He showered and dressed quickly but methodically, pausing only twice: once to remember where he had left his stethoscope and once to scribble a quick note onto a yellow pad. He ended up leaving both on the table.

~*~

The sun pricked at his eyes as he rolled slowly over, facing its light through slitted lids. His clothes were twisted around his body, making them tight and awkward as he stretched. He yanked at his shirt to turn the wrinkled cloth right again, but it would require getting up to be truly rearranged, and he wasn’t sure it was worth the effort.

Looking at the ceiling, he took a moment for self-evaluation, debating if any complaints merited rising from the sofa where he had apparently spent the night. His mouth tasted of stale gin, and he could certainly do with a toothbrush. His hair also needed a brush, and a shampoo; actually, most of him probably needed a washing. His bladder too was making a plea for attention, a testament to the quantity of rather alcoholic liquid he had consumed with BJ. BJ. That was what was missing from the sofa; that was the reason he needed to get up.

But he paused, briefly, in the warm wash of late morning light. If he got up, he had to face BJ, sober. He wasn’t sure if the adjective applied to BJ or himself; either way, it wasn’t pleasant. And though Hawkeye relished the night’s moments, the thought of a cold reception brought any thoughts of a continuation to a sudden halt. While he would like to anticipate a happy BJ assembling breakfast for them in the kitchen, his mind produced instead the image of a guilt-ridden married man, sitting with slumped shoulders, nursing a headache and praying that his wife would forgive him for his lapse in judgment.

Well, Lapse in Judgment, you better clean things up, his conscience poked at him as he drug himself into a sitting position. With a sigh he pushed himself off the sofa, ran a hand through his hair, and looked around. It didn’t seem quite right that nothing had changed after their obvious disturbance of the suburban expectations. The only indications were the quickly-disappearing depression in the sofa, a crumpled white handkerchief on the floor, and an assortment of bottles and glasses on the side table.

He reached down, hearing his back crack, and grabbed the handkerchief, shoving it in the pocket of his pants. The bottles he put back under the dry sink cabinet then screwed the lid back on the olive jar before taking it along with the glasses into the kitchen. The olives he placed in the refrigerator, the glasses into the sink along with their dinner dishes.

“BJ?” he called into the house, but even before he spotted the note, he was fairly sure the other wasn’t there. The note was simple: a hospital call, emergency, he would understand, back by noon.

He would have to wait, then, for a resolution to the doubts buzzing in his head. Linking his hands, he raised them over his head in a prolonged stretch, attempting to shed some of the nervousness that had already accumulated in his body. That one motion, of course, hardly accomplished the feat.

First he cleaned himself, and returned, shaved and showered, back downstairs. Though he was far from a natural housekeeper, he managed their few dishes without incident. The plates and glasses he put away, but the sippy cup confounded him, and he was forced to leave it sitting on the counter. Then he wandered back to the living room, noting that there was no trace of what had occurred; the kitchen reported the same. If BJ wanted to deny the whole incident, he now easily could. Yes, Hawkeye tried to rally his sense of friendly duty against the depressing gloom that was settling, it was the right thing to do. And, if BJ chose not to deny it, well, he raised an eyebrow and rewarded himself with a little smile. The smile was more strained as the day proceeded with no appearance of his host.

Breakfast came to him in the form of lunch, a sandwich crafted out of leftover meatloaf from Peg’s dinner. After eating, he washed the plate. Then he had a drink and washed the glass. Again he searched for a place to rightfully store away the sippy cup, but it was no use. He ended up at the kitchen table once more, nervously tapping his fingers against the wood. Hawkeye was never good at waiting, and he was even less skilled at being bored. Boredom brought mischievousness out in him; it was like an inevitable chemical reaction.

~*~

The pizza box was warm on his arm as he approached the back door, and he was glad to sit it down on the table. His note was still there with, of course, the forgotten stethoscope that he hadn’t missed until he was well on his way to the hospital. He picked up the device as he went to the steps.

“Hawkeye?”

“Here,” came a muffled reply from one of the upstairs rooms, and BJ went up.

It had occurred to him about six hours into his impromptu shift at the hospital that leaving Hawkeye Pierce alone in one’s home might not have been the safest of ideas. The man had been largely behaving himself, but BJ carefully watched for booby traps as he ventured down the upstairs hall.

“Marco,” he called.

“Polo,” came the answer.

BJ turned the corner to stare into his office. Hawkeye sat behind his desk, feet propped casually on the edge, BJ’s good pen in one hand and his date book in the other. BJ made a silent bet with himself that every drawer had been carefully gone through, and the bookshelves had probably gotten a once-over as well. Not that it mattered; the only thing he had to hide was currently sitting behind the desk.

He leaned in the doorway.

“What’cha reading?” he asked casually, as if Hawkeye had tried to hide it in the least.

Suddenly, Hawkeye clutched it to his chest dramatically, “That’s none of your business.”

“No?”

“No, this happens to be a very private appointment book,” he stated with all the seriousness he could muster. He began to flip the pages with extraordinary flare but soon frowned. “No soirées? No black-tie affairs? No balls?”

Hawkeye lifted an eyebrow in challenge, but BJ took the high road, “How will I ever meet my prince charming?” He stowed his stethoscope on a shelf and plopped into a still leather armchair to the right of the desk. “Besides, I don’t have any glass slippers.”

“You’d have to leave one of your big clown shoes.”

“Can’t I just leave my card?”

“BJ Hunnicutt, M.D., mediocre damsel?”

“Mighty debonair?”

“Don’t kid yourself, doctor,” he dropped his feet from the desk, laying the date book on its thick oak surface and leaning over it as he flipped the pages. “Hey, Beej?”

“Yeah?”

“What’s wrong with Peg’s aunt?”

“Why?” He wasn’t sure he wanted to talk about Peg at the moment; in fact, he was sure he didn’t.

“You marked all the days Peg’s gone to see her. It’s a lot. Chronic?”

“She’s old, Hawk. Probably lonely too. Who knows, maybe she exaggerates to get the company.”

“You never go?”

He shrugged. “I offered, but Peg said it wasn’t necessary.”

“She may need a doctor.”

“Funny thing about doctors,” he returned, repeating his wife’s words, “they have them in Sacramento, too.”

Only mildly interested in the current subject, Hawkeye put the book down and turned his full attention to BJ. There was a sudden darkening of his eyes, and BJ felt an inevitable withdrawal approaching. He routed it off.

“Don’t.”

Hawkeye lifted his hands in protest of his innocence, “What?”

“Don’t clock out on me.” He stood again, feeling the familiar tiredness of feet that had carried him around on tiled floors all day. Convincing them to move, he circumnavigated the desk and, with a hand on each arm of the desk chair, leaned over his friend. Hawkeye shifted back, his own hands curling around each other in his lap, but his eyes were drawn with magnetic force to BJ’s.

“I’m sorry, Beej,” he offered.

“Well, I want you to know that I’m not.” He nodded solemnly, needing Hawkeye to know that he wasn’t joking. He leaned closer, arm on either side of the other. He watched Hawkeye’s nervous eyes flicker and retreat to the floor, and realized, suddenly and with regret, that he wasn’t helping anything by practically trapping him in the chair. Relaxing his arms, he let them drop to his sides.

“Hawk,” he paused to lower himself down beside the other, propping himself on one knee on the floor like he was about to make some awkward proposal. He was trying to get Hawkeye’s eyes back on him. “I’m pretty sure I knew this was going to happen. I knew when I called you, when I invited you here. I think maybe I knew even before that.”

“You aren’t that kind of person, Beej.” He said it with such conviction that the tense smile he had plastered on his face didn’t quite cover the honesty.

“Maybe I wasn’t, before, but,” he placed a hand on Hawkeye’s thigh, fingers unconsciously kneading the taut muscle there, “these last months…even Peg noticed.”

A slight flinch at the name, and a silent look after.

“I missed you, you idiot.” He shoved the other playfully.

“I missed you too.”

BJ stretched up to press his lips to Hawkeye’s and felt the other’s hands grip his shoulder, a little too tight. He pulled away for an examination.

“What about Wednesday? What about that?” His voice was suddenly aggressive, but the undercurrent of pain, past and anticipated, wasn’t lost on BJ.

“I don’t know,” he admitted, sighed, and stood. For moment, Hawkeye thought he would walk away, but he turned back to him and offered a hand up, “But I do know that your dinner’s getting cold.” He waited, hand outstretched, more than a six dollar dinner hinging on its acceptance. There was a laden pause, then Hawkeye’s soft hand slipped into his own, their palms locking together as BJ tugged him to his feet.

~tbc~

AN: So it continues. A little more plot this chapter, but I’m thinking (depending on the responses I get) that I’ll write the first ‘real’ sex scene next chapter. Opinions?