Chapter Text
December 1952
As the weather cooled and the winter of 1952 plunged them into increasingly earlier dark, Hawkeye slipped into a dark of his own. None of them were happy, none were well-rested or healthy, and BJ had seen Hawkeye in plenty of desperate and despairing moods. But none had been so disconcertingly quiet.
Hawkeye had stopped talking about home. About most things. He’d stopped his long, loving descriptions of food, of favorite cities and towns, of everything to which he wanted to return. What little he said pertained to the work. When he was awake, he seemed drowsy and distracted. He was rarely awake. And he’d allowed a small stack of letters from his father to collect, unopened, on his storage trunk.
At least he was getting some sleep, BJ thought glumly, easing the door of the Swamp closed. Outside the air was sharp with the threat of snow. The stove-fire had gone out, and his breath frosted in front of him, but with the tent-flaps down they were shielded from the wind.
He re-lit the fire. Hawkeye was, as lately typical, collapsed across his cot, exactly where he’d been at the beginning of BJ’s shift. He’d slept all night, too, and the majority of the day before. Once the fire was stable, BJ crouched beside his cot and jostled him gently. “Hawk.”
Hawkeye moaned lowly, displeased. One eye opened to a slit and regarded BJ with a nervousmaking blankness.
“You’re on shift,” BJ informed him. He hated to say it, but he needed sleep, too, and a meal and a shower.
Hawkeye’s other eye opened. His irises drifted upward, and then down, his face impassive. He sat up mechanically, swung his feet over the side of his cot, and placed them into his boots. He’d been asleep in his coat and cap. He was getting a beard.
“You have a little time.” BJ tried to sound cheerful. “Want to stop by the mess together?”
All the response he got was a wrinkled nose and an uncoordinated hand-flip.
Another concern: Hawkeye was abstaining from eating as surely as from talking. He had always been pale, but his skin was starting to look grey. His health was suffering, evident in the increasing narrowness of his face, the thinness of his limbs. He looked sick. It was starting to unnerve the patients.
“Are you on a hunger strike?” BJ inquired. He’d meant it to try to lighten the mood, but it came out condescending. Hawkeye shot him an exhausted glare he figured he’d earned, and stumbled through the door, mired in some private misery.
BJ sighed and laid out on his cot, closing his eyes, wincing through his spine decompressing. He turned the problem over as he tried to get up the energy to shower. It wasn’t a subtle one. People had noticed there was something wrong. Hawkeye had received an R&R pass—unasked for—that he accepted with a flat neutrality. When a push had gone off last minute, and the pass had been rescinded, Hawkeye maintained a complete lack of responsiveness. He’d only unpacked his bag and walked to the scrub room. Radar had taken to hovering and asking if Hawkeye had any return letters for his father. Potter had been sternly advising Hawkeye to shape up and shave, and was going thoroughly ignored. There had been talk of calling Sidney—but to do so, for all Sidney’s careful avoidance of damning paper trails, felt like a frightening gamble with autonomy, with safety, with Hawkeye’s career that no one had yet decided it was necessary to risk.
How to cheer the man up? Trying felt unfair, pitiable. If Hawkeye was depressed, it was only reasonable. Their circumstances made it seem the most natural response. But he still hated to see Hawkeye doing so poorly. If they were home, he thought, then there might be something he could do to help. A party, a meal, a day off, a walk along the shore. But if they were home, there’d be no need for help at all. And he would be far from Hawkeye, anyway. Recursive. Disappointing. His eyelids had shut sometime without his noticing. He failed to open them, realized he was thinking of or maybe watching Hawkeye on a beach somewhere—shirtless, dozing, laughing as BJ laid his head in his lap. Hand in his hair, then moving lower. The sun was high and it should’ve been hot but it wasn’t. The water was cold and the wind was cold and the sun didn’t do anything to help. Hawkeye was feeding their picnic to the seagulls. The water came in and pulled him away and BJ sat up sharply. It was morning.
Hawkeye wasn’t in his cot. That was a favorable sign, possibly. At least he’d moved under his own volition. BJ groaned and stood. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep straight off of shift, and was paying for it with a cramp in his lower back, mild dizziness, and the miserable feeling of cooled sweat on his skin. He showered, shaved, wrapped himself against the cold, and made for the mess.
He found Hawkeye again at a far table, positioned away from the door, weight on his elbows, looking as usual like he’d rather be sleeping. Holding a mug of coffee, a tray in front of him. BJ picked up a tray of his own—the usual, limp bacon, stale toast, powdered eggs—and sat down beside him.
“Hi, Hawk,” he greeted, pushing their thighs together under the table. In extreme weather, it made sense to sit close. Sharing warmth was a necessity. And he hoped it might offer Hawkeye some comfort. He always felt better when Hawkeye touched him.
Hawkeye made a noise of acknowledgement. His gaze was locked to his coffee mug. His knuckles were white with the force of his grip, though his fingers had gone pink with radiant heat.
“Cold?” BJ asked, sympathetic. His hands tended to ache when the temperature fell so sharply.
Hawkeye nodded. He hadn’t touched his food. Even his coffee was transparently serving more as a handwarmer than a potable.
BJ pushed their legs together more firmly. He was losing hope on Hawkeye’s R&R pass being reinstated without some sort of bartering or bribery. Though it might not have mattered. With Hawkeye in his current state, it was possible he’d spend three days motionless in bed and return just as unwell as he’d left. Something had to change.
“Not risking the eggs?” He placed his foot gently on top of Hawkeye’s, tapping it to make his presence felt.
Hawkeye stirred and considered the contents of his tray. His expression was one of polite nonunderstanding, amiably distant, as though he was a new visitor to Earth who preferred to photosynthesize.
“The toast is passable,” BJ lied. It was the texture of cardboard, but at least it was better than the eggs.
Hawkeye believed him enough to drag his plate an inch closer. After a period of silent contemplation, he broke off a brittle corner of toast. He sniffed it, studied it, and dunked it in his water cup. When he brought it out again, it drooped under its own sodden weight. Hawkeye ducked his head to meet it.
BJ’s nose wrinkled. There had been an audible sluice as Hawkeye bit into his wet toast. Offputting in the extreme. He was doing his best to eat without tasting, or focusing too much on texture. The minute he started appending adjectives was the minute he’d lose his appetite. Hawkeye appeared to have given up again, and was back to staring at his coffee.
Unsettling for Hawkeye to be so quiet. BJ didn’t know what to do with himself, how to be at ease with the ongoing silence. He struggled to know what Hawkeye needed, or wanted. Would he prefer BJ be quiet, too, and sit with him until he felt well enough to interact again? Or would he rather BJ provide a one-sided conversation, talking idly without requiring a response—would it be comforting? Or grating? Hawkeye wasn’t giving him any indication of anything. He was at a loss.
“Think you’re going to keep your beard?” BJ asked, eyeing it. He’d never seen Hawkeye go so long without shaving. His beard was blacker than his hair, but still speckled through with silver, most concentrated at his sideburns and the point of his chin. It made him look less like a doctor and more like an artist of some kind. Like the poet-types he had been starting to notice in the corners of San Francisco’s seedier bars. He wasn’t sure Hawkeye would take that as a compliment, even if he meant it that way, so he kept it to himself.
Hawkeye shrugged. It seemed to take a real effort.
BJ laid his hand on Hawkeye’s shoulder, trying to maximize their points of contact. That was another kind of communication. Maybe Hawkeye would be more responsive to touch.
“Been too tired to shave,” Hawkeye murmured, surprising him. His voice was rough with lack of use.
BJ smiled and thumbed Hawkeye’s chin. His beard was coarse and probably itchy. “We’ve all been there.” He hesitated for a beat, then decided, what the hell—it was only helping a friend. “If you want it gone, I could give you a shave. You cut my hair last month, I owe you.”
Hawkeye scratched his jaw. He made fleeting eye contact. A minute nod followed.
“As soon as you like,” BJ affirmed. He rubbed Hawkeye’s upper back for a while, managing his coffee one-handed. A few nurses were watching, but he didn’t mind, and Hawkeye was in no state to notice, much less care.
Half of his coffee elapsed in silence. Hawkeye’s hand landed on his thigh under the table. It squeezed him lightly, and moved away again.
“Maybe we can get a joint pass to Tokyo,” BJ proposed, feeling emboldened. The lines of Hawkeye’s ribs, prominent enough to feel even in the space between his shoulder blades, was setting something nervous and cold sinking through his torso. And there was the memory of Seoul, the last time he’d seen Hawkeye really interested in eating—he was building a case for Potter, he decided. Hawkeye needed the rest, and needed BJ with him, to—to ensure he relaxed. His tag-along doctor. Personal physician. Dedicated to his health and well-being. The idea warmed him.
Hawkeye shrugged again.
BJ kept up rubbing his back. “You don’t want to go?” Too tired to travel, maybe.
Hawkeye tilted his head, noncommittal. His jaw worked. Eventually he managed: “No point. I’d sleep through it.”
“That’d be alright.” BJ kneaded into his shoulder, gentle.
Hawkeye’s face slackened. He tilted into BJ’s hand. “I’d be boring.”
“Boring’s okay. You can lean a little more on one R than the other. Nothing wrong with resting more than recreating.”
Hawkeye mumbled something about not leaving bed. A prime opportunity for innuendo that he let pass by, a sure sign Hawkeye was really under the weather.
“That’s fine, too. It’s all fine.” BJ slid his hand up, massaging the base of Hawkeye’s neck. Touch seemed to be helping. At least they were holding a semblance of a conversation. “I wouldn’t care if you stayed horizontal for three straight days. I could bring you something to eat. Some sake. Maybe a girl, if you’re lucky,” he joked. A thrill shot up his fingertips as he remembered the last time they’d shared a hotel room, making the shape of his fingers against the vulnerable angle of Hawkeye’s nape seem scandalous. He shied away from the memory and focused instead on the lines of Hawkeye’s shoulders.
“A pretty one?” Hawkeye slurred. His eyes were closed, and he looked half a second away from dropping off into his untouched eggs.
“If you’re good.”
“What kind of food?” Hawkeye asked, in the same tone he’d asked about the girl.
BJ laughed, face warming, as it always did when Hawkeye went on some identically-enthused verbal detour about sex or smoked salmon. “Whatever kind you like. I could cook for you, maybe, if you don’t want to go out. Get some fresh eggs in. Some bread. Then you could send me out for anything else you wanted.”
Hawkeye bowed his head. He rubbed his eyes. “Really?”
“Of course.”
“Why?”
“Why?” BJ repeated. “What do you mean, why? Because you’ve got a few weeks of eating and sleeping to catch up on.”
Hawkeye made a doubtful noise.
“You’re not immune to needing things.” BJ held him around the waist. Everyone had given up looking at them. Nothing out of the ordinary, the two of them sitting with arms around each other. Standard regardless of weather. “I’d like to help.”
Hawkeye gave him a sideways look, undereyes dark. “You really want to cook me breakfast and watch me sleep?”
The warmth in his face intensified. He liked the idea. Explicitly and completely. Hawkeye sighing with contentment after breakfast, curling up on a real bed, and napping through the afternoon. Waking up feeling better, maybe. Sitting up, some color and life back in his face, suggesting as he had over a year ago a night of hedonism, debauchery, eating, drinking, flirting. Hawkeye animated and handsome in his uniform. Collapsing into bed hours later sated and dishabille, complaining indulgently about overdoing it. And then—well, it would be nice to see him at ease for a change. Might help the both of them release some tension. “Sure.”
“Why?”
BJ hesitated. The truth was, he didn’t know. Because Hawkeye was important to him, and dear. Because Hawkeye was hurting in a way it wasn’t in his power to heal. Because the desire to help him, to feed him, care for him, make him laugh, see him happier and healthier came to him with the force of a need, from somewhere so deep it escaped interrogation, seemed even to evade description. Because everything living needed to eat and rest and have time to relax, and Hawkeye was the alivest person he knew, even when he was playing at a walking death.
“Just the way I’m built,” he said, giving up any real attempt at parsing out his feelings, or searching for an explanation. It felt too serious to attempt, thousands of miles from home, in the cold and damp, with Hawkeye barely conscious beside him. He pulled Hawkeye closer, smiling when Hawkeye let his head rest briefly against his shoulder. It could wait. There would be a better time, he was sure, to work it out. Some things didn’t need to be understood in a hurry.
July 1954
BJ slipped his arms around his waist, sighing against his neck. Hawkeye leaned back far enough for a kiss in greeting, and then returned to the task at hand: preparing strawberries to have with their lunch. BJ had been out in the garden all morning, and smelled warmly of sweat, sunshine, and damp earth. The windows were open, letting in a gentle, salt-scented breeze and the early-summer heat. Hawkeye was wrapped in a well-worn old flannel, enjoying the pleasure of being too warm instead of too cold.
“How’s it looking out there?” Hawkeye asked. He’d been watching from the window, wolf-whistling from time to time as BJ bent over to inspect the base of a trellis or pluck a weed. He made a handsome picture, tending the garden in worn denim workpants and a stretched-out undershirt. Like something out of a magazine. Between yardwork, beach days with Erin, and his shirtless jogging habit, he was getting a handsome tan. Plus sun-bleach streaks in his hair. Very Californian.
“Great. Tomatoes are starting to bud.” BJ kissed the side of his neck, leaning into him.
“Mm. We’ll be flush with bruschetta by next month.”
“Blackberries sooner. We’ve got too many cucumbers already.”
“Speaking of.” Hawkeye tilted his head in the direction of the fridge. “Cucumber sandwiches for lunch. Plus whatever else you want.”
“What do you want?” BJ asked, lips moving against the back of his ear.
Attention, Hawkeye decided, even though BJ was already pressed bodily against him, kissing idle patterns up the line of his neck, more than passively trying to seduce him. He went on slicing the tops off of strawberries, halving them and letting them fall in a bowl, the stems collecting in the sink basin. He licked his thumb, getting a taste of sweetness, and hummed his approval, louder than necessary. “I don’t care. I like everything.”
BJ laughed pleasedly, hands settling on the curve of Hawkeye’s hips. His grip tightened, exploratory, his thumbs finding and massaging the tense span of muscle at his lower back while his palms pressed into his sides.
Hawkeye sliced another strawberry. BJ’s touch slid forward until he was framing Hawkeye’s stomach, right hand over his waistband, left resting below his sternum. Hawkeye inhaled slowly, distracted by the warm weight of BJ’s palm rising and falling with his breath and the tickle of BJ’s mustache against his neck. He held his knife carefully down and away, melting into BJ’s arms. BJ squeezed him approvingly and he dropped his knife into the basin, too warmed through to pretend to keep focus.
“You feel so good,” BJ murmured into his neck. He tightened his hold, rocking his weight to settle better against Hawkeye’s back, splaying his hands wide and pressing them into Hawkeye’s torso.
Hawkeye closed his eyes and dragged his hands up BJ’s forearms, overlapping their palms in silent agreement. He did feel good. Healthy and happy. And sexy. He liked the way BJ’s hands settled against him, the sensuality of being softer and warmer to hold, of pulling BJ close and feeling their bodies come to rest fully and comfortably against each other.
Hawkeye turned in BJ’s arms and yanked him flush by the beltloops, enjoying the whuff of BJ’s breath when their torsos impacted, soft and solid. He rolled his hips forward, holding BJ in place as they ground together, arching his back to keep the curve of his stomach pressed against BJ’s, because it felt good and because he knew it would affect BJ like a cabinet door to the temple.
Sure enough, BJ made a choked-sounding groan and jolted forward, sealing their torsos together so tight that breathing in at the same time became a challenge. Until recently, that move would’ve bruised them both—Hawkeye’s ribcage, or BJ’s hips, the impact sharp and mutually painful. Sex had felt utilitarian for a while. BJ grasping him around the ribs didn’t bring much pleasure beyond the basic enjoyment of touch. He was self-conscious of looking sickly, and found it painful to have pressure placed anywhere particularly bony. His knees got tired fast, and overexertion risked dizziness. BJ didn’t like handling him with any degree of spontaneity or force, afraid he would hurt him. It was hard to feel sexy while being treated like an antique.
It was much better to get to enjoy his body in full. He shoved against BJ again, getting in his face because he could, because his hipbones were comfortably padded, because he knew BJ wouldn’t hesitate to press back, spurred by a competitive need to hold his ground.
BJ surprised him by yielding, turning so he was against the counter, Hawkeye at his front. He lowered his eyes and tugged at Hawkeye’s shirt.
“Is that a hint?” Hawkeye asked, pushing in until BJ was forced to bend a few degrees backward over the counter. BJ didn’t reply, though he was grinning.
Hawkeye rolled their hips together before pulling away far enough to shuck his flannel, slipping it over his head. He let it fall to the floor and stood there in his undershirt and jeans. BJ was watching him, pink flushed, his hands braced against the counter edge. Hawkeye inhaled deeply, rolling his shoulders. The flannel was part of his old civilian wardrobe, and was mildly oversized. The jeans and the undershirt, though, were of the temporary new wardrobe he’d been forced to put together freshly home, when everything he’d owned hung off him. The old clothes, happily, were starting to fit. The new ones were starting to strain.
BJ was still looking at him, though his attention was focused decidedly south of Hawkeye’s face.
“See something you like?”
BJ reached up to smooth his mustache, a flustered give-away. “Those jeans might be on their last legs.”
Hawkeye tilted his head. “Please. I was planning to donate. They’ll see plenty of legs after mine.”
BJ swatted at him, rolling his eyes as Hawkeye laughed. “You know what I meant.”
“What’s that?” Hawkeye asked, like he was oblivious to the way the denim settled against his body, to the effort it was taking lately to get the button to fasten, to the way his undershirt clung around the increased breadth of his chest or his waist, exaggerating the softness that had started to collect there. BJ seemed to like to tease him, and he liked letting BJ tease, so long as he got to give as well as he took.
BJ shrugged innocently, though his expression was gratified as he slipped his fingertips under Hawkeye’s shirt. He traced the edge of his waistband, and paused at the button, the pad of his thumb settling delicately against the curve below his navel. It pushed slightly over his tighter slacks, and made him wear his belts lower. BJ was probably right about it being time to switch back to his old civilian wardrobe. The thought warmed and pleased him. He laid a hand on his middle, holding himself fondly, and didn’t miss the way BJ’s eyes followed the movement.
“These are awfully tight,” BJ said, tugging at his waistband. His eyes were half-lidded, his blush high, like he’d said something particularly lascivious. Hawkeye stifled a laugh. The sorts of things BJ got off on, what he considered dirty talk, were cute. Especially when BJ got shy, or on the other hand atypically daring. It made him easy to tease in return.
“They are,” Hawkeye acknowledged, watching BJ’s face. “Shirt, too. Maybe I messed up the laundry.” He stayed relaxed and arched forward, easing the tension in his body, letting his undershirt ride up an inch. He gave into the urge to press the line of his jeans down, though it didn’t do much to relieve the bite of the denim against his hips.
“Hm.” BJ gave him a long, evaluating look, his hands on Hawkeye’s waist. “Maybe.” He tugged again at Hawkeye’s waistband, his knuckles brushing the tender skin of his stomach.
“Or,” Hawkeye said, and broke off to exhale in unfeigned relief when BJ unbuttoned his jeans. They’d been digging into him more than he’d realized. “Or,” he started again, “it might be this guy I’m seeing.”
BJ got his hands up Hawkeye’s shirt, going straight for his hips. He was getting red in the face, but was doing his best to hold up to the flirtation. “Think so?”
“Uh-huh.” Hawkeye wrapped his hand around BJ’s wrist. He directed his touch around to his lower back, encouraging BJ to draw him close until they were pressed tightly together. He rucked BJ’s shirt up a few inches so they were skin to skin, his stomach settling warmly against BJ’s. “Might have something to do with all these desserts he’s been feeding me.”
Slightly too far. BJ made a sharp noise, caught between mortification and arousal, and closed his eyes. He was easily overwhelmed, and more easily embarrassed by his own reactions. Sweet, if a little sad. He wondered how long it would take for BJ to really believe that he was enjoying himself, too, and that there was no need, really, to be embarrassed at all, when it was just the two of them. A while, maybe. In the meantime, though, even a few idle comments seemed to have an entertainingly disproportionate power. He was studiously collecting everything he could say, imply, or otherwise intimate that made BJ blush, stammer, or—enjoyably—snap his name and walk briefly out of the room, vexed by the intensity of his arousal.
“What? It’s true. He likes keeping me fed,” Hawkeye continued, blithe and innocent, even though BJ had shoved his burning face into Hawkeye’s neck. “And he’s good at it. Takes good care of me.”
BJ’s hands tightened on his hips.
Hawkeye lowered his head, nosing at BJ’s cheek. “Think we can credit him for the fact my jeans don’t fit?”
“Christ.” BJ sounded short of breath. He exhaled slowly against Hawkeye’s neck, a sure sign he was working up to saying something. Finally he managed: “If they don’t fit, I guess we’d better take them off you.”
Hawkeye hummed his agreement, smug at the effect he was having. BJ was hard against his hip and touching him with unsteady hands, needy and enthusiastic. It was nice to be appreciated. He’d expected BJ to direct them upstairs to bed, but repositioned willingly when BJ dropped to his knees—dirt-stained and damp from gardening—in order to work his pants off him right there in the kitchen. It took a while. BJ stopped to kiss every newly-revealed inch of skin on the way down, hands sweeping appreciatively over his hips, his knees, even his shins, though the focus was transparently skewed to the softest part of his inner thighs.
Hawkeye tilted his head and watched, endeared, enjoying the gentle reverence with which BJ slipped his jeans off his feet, first one and then the other, before returning to squeeze affectionately at his hips, his mouth pressed to the waistband of his undershorts, a pleasant tingle running out from every place BJ touched. Who would’ve thought the nondescript space between navel and hip could be a turnon for them both? It was a kind of sexuality to which he was still becoming accustomed.
It wasn’t that BJ made him feel like an object, or as though it was only his body he cared about. It wasn’t a narrowing, an insufficiency, or a lack. Really it was the opposite. When BJ’s hand settled on his hip, or when he wrapped his arms around Hawkeye’s waist, there was all the unqualified affection he’d expect from a lover. With it—and there the addition—came the awareness of an erotically-charged appreciation. BJ touched all of him, hip, belly, chest, chin, shin, ankle, with the adoration and attraction he was used to having directed towards only a few specific and colloquially sexual parts of his anatomy.
It felt like shaking off a set of blinders he’d not known he’d been wearing. After all, why shouldn’t somebody find his knees or the slope of his jaw or the small new presence of a belly just as sexually appealing as anything else? Past encounters were starting to seem limited by comparison. How had he settled for somebody who didn’t find every inch of him desirable in its own right—who didn’t want to worship his any- and everything regardless of its bony angularity or its softness? He hadn’t known to want somebody who not only didn’t care if he changed, but found it exciting, who loved him as a living, responsive being, for the ways he was soft, pliable, fluxed and flexible, who would want to know and care for him in every iteration, physical and mental.
He didn’t have to be frightened of disappointing, or pressured into performing, or worried over needing to look or act or be exactly the same forever. All BJ wanted from him was for him to be himself—for him to be comfortable, happy, and at ease, no matter what it looked like. The sex was incredible. He’d never felt so sated, so physically well cared-for in the long-term.
And in every facet. He’d also never eaten so well in the entirety of his adult life. BJ was a good cook, and cared deeply about ensuring, sexual gratification or no, that they were both eating well. What wasn’t there to feel good about?
He caught BJ by the chin and gently urged him back to standing. BJ rose willingly, eyes half-lidded, blushing extravagantly. Though BJ was fully dressed, and Hawkeye was down to an ill-fitting undershirt and a pair of undershorts, he felt at ease. Powerful, in control. He leaned against the counter and kept BJ’s jaw in hand, tugging him closer. BJ moved easily, leaning into him. Hawkeye grinned. “You are sweet. Aren’t you?”
BJ closed his eyes and kissed the center of his palm. He was tremoring slightly with restraint. Closer to the edge than Hawkeye had realized. He considered BJ’s face, the line of his jaw and his greying stubble, and decided to tug on a thread of curiosity.
“Forgetting something?” Hawkeye asked him, thumbing across his lower lip. BJ looked at him, dazed, uncertain, so he clarified: “Don’t want my strawberries to go to waste. They’re always better fresh.”
BJ pressed his hips to Hawkeye’s, reaching behind him to retrieve a strawberry from the bowl in the sink. He raised it to Hawkeye’s lips.
Hawkeye accepted it, licking the pads of BJ’s fingers. It was a very good strawberry. Small, sweet, brightly-flavored—he moaned his appreciation, and laughed as BJ dropped his head to Hawkeye’s shoulder.
“Touch me,” he suggested, letting his posture open, making himself available. BJ took him by the shoulders, then let his hands slip to his chest, kneading into the curve of his pectorals.
“You feel so—” BJ cut off, too focused getting his hands under Hawkeye’s shirt. He squeezed his waist, palming at the shallow slope of his stomach, and let out a little gasp of gratification.
Hawkeye stifled a laugh and leaned into it, enjoying the desperation of BJ’s touch, his intensity and obvious attraction, and the pleasure of being felt up so thoroughly. More new angles for eroticism. There were places on a body—stomach, the soft underside of the jaw or the upper curve of a hip—that were particularly responsive to touch, vulnerable and unguarded as they were, and still inexplicably underappreciated as sites of sexual pleasure. He trailed his fingertips over his own lower belly, brushing past BJ’s hand. The lightness of the touch made him shiver. He shifted to press his hand flat to BJ’s, holding it against his hip where the waistband of his undershorts indented his side.
BJ kissed his neck, open-mouthed and enthusiastic. Teeth scraped against his jugular, sending a sharp wave of heat down Hawkeye’s spine. He cupped BJ’s head, bared his throat, and focused on feeling: BJ’s hands kneading his sides, his stubble scratching the underside of his jaw, the pressure of his hips, and under all of it a deeper warmth. He was comfortable, felt loved and desired, safe, rested, and mildly hungry—pleasant because he knew it was a temporary feeling, and would soon be sated. There was pleasure in anticipation of a satisfying meal, well-made. Especially after years of getting by on Army slop. Every meal was exciting and something to appreciate thoroughly by comparison. More broadly: every pleasure was something to appreciate thoroughly by comparison.
“C’mere,” he breathed, catching BJ around the hips. He exerted a little effort and hiked BJ an inch off the ground, letting their bodies slide frictively together as BJ’s weight returned to the floor. BJ whined and bucked against him, getting his teeth on Hawkeye’s shoulder. He didn’t bite down, but the points of his canine teeth were a tangible pressure.
“Can you come like this?” Hawkeye asked, encouraging BJ to roll his hips against Hawkeye’s thigh. Three layers of fabric, Hawkeye still mostly clothed, the only skin-to-skin contact that of BJ’s face against his neck and his hands under Hawkeye’s shirt, and still BJ was already shivering against him, short of breath.
BJ cursed, breathy and stifled against his shoulder. His pace picked up, his grip on Hawkeye’s waist tightening. Hawkeye closed his eyes and relaxed into it, letting his posture gentle in BJ’s arms, jolting against the counter with every forward thrust.
Hawkeye lolled forward, putting more of his weight into BJ’s hold. He kissed at BJ’s neck, his jaw, his earlobe, and decided it was too good an opportunity to miss. He nuzzled close and murmured: “So I found this lemon bar recipe…”
He’d meant to follow it up with a little more teasing, something about baking together or licking the spoon or going for broke and suggesting BJ might enjoy feeding him a few, but by the time he’d hit the word ‘recipe,’ BJ gasped sharply, stuttered against him, and came. A few beats of quiet elapsed with BJ draped over him, breathing hard.
“I’ll take that as a resounding yes to lemon bars,” Hawkeye said, amused.
“Bastard,” BJ exhaled. He pulled back, hair flattened on one side, face pink. “Of course it is. It’s a yes to everything, always, all the time.” He pushed his hair back and broke eye contact. “I just wish you’d warn me before you start—“ he shook his head.
“What?” Hawkeye patted his cheek. “Before I suggest something really scandalous like banana bread? Ah,” he sighed, salacious, “two cups flour. Three-quarters brown sugar. Eight tablespoons of butter…”
BJ rolled his eyes. His embarrassment didn’t seem to be easing, so Hawkeye let off on the teasing and reeled him in for a hug and a kiss on the cheek. “Does it really bother you?” he asked, contrite. It seemed harmless, funny, endearingly and sweetly odd, which made it easy to forget BJ took it all somewhat more seriously than Hawkeye felt he needed to.
“No.” BJ kissed his cheek. “Nevermind. You’d think I’d believe that you—by now, anyway, but I’m still...” he shook his head and covered his eyes, grinning self-consciously at his own diffidence. “Someday I’ll be able to talk about this without needing ten minutes to compose myself first. I liked it. How’s that?”
“Plenty clear. And don’t worry about it. Nobody’s racing anywhere. But, uh, if you were looking for a pastime…” he raised his hips suggestively.
BJ’s mustache curved with his smile. He put his hands on the counter around Hawkeye’s waist, held his gaze, and lowered himself to the kitchen floor. He hooked his fingers in Hawkeye’s waistband, giving his undershorts a tug. Just before he pulled them off, he pressed a kiss to Hawkeye’s hip, corners of his eyes crinkling.
“Half teaspoon cinnamon,” Hawkeye recited, to keep him from getting too bold. “Two eggs.”
“Can it,” BJ laughed, yanking his shorts down, doing his level best to distract Hawkeye out of oven temperatures and mixer speeds. Later there would be lemon bars.