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Francis is bone deep tired as he walks back to the operating room. His stole had fallen off some time during the session, and he hadn't been able to retrieve it with Hawkeye directing him to hold a clamp in place, or pass a sponge. He had entirely forgotten about it in the controlled chaos of a man's bleeding chest cavity.
"I'm putting you to work again, Father. You can put in some overtime on your Sainthood. Heal the sick, clamp the artery. Good. Like riding a bicycle, you got this. Now suction."
They needed all the help they could get, and although his experience was thin, Francis had helped during the great flu epidemic. At least they didn't have to pull in Radar again, who nearly fainted the first time.
It's so much strain with only three doctors, one of whom is so terribly new to all this, and one of whom is... well, Major Burns is probably trying his best, although he seems more interested in having command over the atmosphere in the O.R. rather than the patients he's supposed to be sewing back together.
Francis rebukes himself for the unkind thought. Then, smiles guiltily as he glances heavenward.
Well, You know. He thinks earnestly. God sees better than anyone what motivates a man's heart.
So deep in his own thoughts he jolts in sudden startlement seeing a bloody body on the last table. He sucks in a breath when it properly registers.
Hawkeye has collapsed on an empty table still in his bloody scrubs.
Francis tries to think how they all could have just left him, but realises the answer.
It is Trapper that always saw to Hawkeye after days like these, so there is no one to collect him with Trapper John gone home.
Francis feels a well of sadness in his heart. It’s been a hard week. Major Burns has been… pushing a more military mindset. Meanwhile, Hawkeye has been pushing himself with his medical duties to make up for their lack of a fourth doctor.
"Didn't you do a double last night?" Captain Hunnicutt asks intently as Francis moves through post-op.
"The perks of being chief," Hawkeye waves him off. "Frank's too busy playing MacArthur, and who would trust him playing doctor anyway?"
"You could trust me."
Hawkeye smiles a tired smile. "I already do. You get some sleep now so later you can watch the chickens by yourself while the fox sleeps."
"Are you the fox in this scenario?"
"I'm not sure. See? You're already helping. Now, go sleep. The sooner you sleep the sooner I get to wake you so I sleep."
They're all used to it at this point. Hawkeye's ability to keep going and going when his hands are needed. No one thought to check.
Francis feels his heart squeeze with guilt. He's supposed to think of these things. He's supposed to check. Henry gone, bless his soul, and Trapper home, he should be looking out for the crazy agnostic who has come to mean so much to him. To all of them.
He’s about to move, to gently shake him awake, but Francis is startled again when the door swings open and Captain Hunnicut pushes back into the O.R.
“There you are,” he mumbles to Hawkeye’s unconscious form. He looks at Francis and tries to smile, but it looks more like a grimace. “I got back and he wasn’t there.” He says in explaination.
And you thought to look.
“He’s very tired,” Francis answers softly, urging him to understand.
And Captain Hunnicut—B.J. does. “How long has he been here? I mean... Not here. The war. He never gives me a straight answer.”
As long as Major Houlihan. Not as long as Col. Blake, and Trapper, and Francis himself, but Francis can’t imagine how the 4077th used to be without Hawkeye.
Colourless. Yes. It was colourless. A place of misery and frozen mud. No one really spoke to Francis then. Not really. Not beyond the occasional confession. Come to think of it, it was Hawkeye that introduced Francis to Trapper, despite Francis having already been there for weeks.
Hawkeye's sudden presence had been like finding oneself in Oz, the world becoming technicolour. Brighter and louder. So much more laughter.
“A little over a year I think,” Francis answers, gathering his thoughts.
B.J. stares down at Hawkeye. There is a desperate look on his face. Francis isn't sure if it's for Hawkeye enduring all this time, or for himself, for the length he might have to endure.
Surely not another year. Surely peace can't be that far away.
Dear God,
Please…
Just…please.
For Hawkeye's sake. For B.J.'s. For all the young men dying.
They both watch Hawkeye sleep, his fading black hair is a mess from the confines of his cap and sweat, his skin is dull. He makes Francis' heart ache.
He expects B.J. to shake Hawkeye awake, or maybe wheel him out on a gurney. Trapper had done it many times.
"Alright Sleeping Beauty, come on. I ain't no Prince Charming, and it's been too many hours since your teeth met a toothbrush for true love's kiss."
"Tease," Hawkeye groans as Trapper helps him up to standing. He's rewarded with a kiss on the temple.
"There. All better?"
"They taught you that at Dartmouth?"
"Sure. Sleepy boys and boo boos 101."
Francis almost expects a similar banter to begin, but after a moment of contemplation B.J. carefully repositions Hawkeye and lifts him into his arms.
There is something holy in the moment. A sweet echo of Pietà. Hawkeye Christ-like in his limp form, the tender grief of Mary in B.J.'s blue eyes.
Francis' mouth falls open, at his own thoughts, at the scene before him. B.J. is a healthy young man, but Francis didn't expect him to be strong enough to carry Hawkeye, who despite being on the skinny side is still a man over six feet tall.
Hawkeye makes a soft sound that might be: “Dad.” He doesn't wake up, just curls against B.J. pressing against the contact or the warmth of another human body.
It's such a merciful act. Full of compassion and care for his fellow doctor. B.J. has worked long hours too. Ones he's not yet used to. He doesn't shake at all from Hawkeye's weight.
“Mind getting the door, Father?” B.J. asks, a little embarrassed. Like he had only thought to hold Hawkeye and hadn't planned how he would actually move out of the room.
“Of course!” Francis moves to hold the first door and then the next until they reach the Swamp.
Francis lingers in the doorway, watching as B.J. carefully lays Hawkeye on his cot. Going to the trouble of pulling off his boots and the top of his bloody scrubs. Hawkeye is dead to the world, not coming close to waking, even with all the manhandling.
Francis has vague memories as a child of his eldest brother carrying him to bed, getting him in pyjamas. He wonders if Hawkeye's beloved father did the same for him. Yes. He must have.
BJ turns. He looks surprised Francis is still there.
“It's…” Francis says, not entirely sure what he wants to express. He thinks of Trapper. Of Hawkeye. How they smiled at each other. How their laughter used to fill the camp.
How, he realises suddenly, that laughter hasn't died with Trapper leaving. Hawkeye between the brutal pace he has taken with one doctor short has still been laughing.
Laughing with B.J. smiling and trusting.
He's usually such a light sleeper, yet he's in such a deep restful sleep...
And yes, he has taken the double shifts. More than is healthy, but he has actually rested in between. Left B.J. to watch things in his absence.
Trusting him. Trusting him enough to actually rest. To not only take care of the patients, and the camp...but to also take care of him.
"Hawkeye, you need to sleep," Francis whispers, sick with concern. Hawkeye's eyes are red rimmed and glassy. He has been up for at least three days straight.
"If I sleep someone will die," Hawkeye explains with certainty. "If you could ask the Big Guy not to take them, I'd appreciate it, but I'm starting to think He's not a very good listener, Father." He's babbling, saying anything that occurs to him, and Francis doesn't try to gently correct him, instead he tries to press reason.
"There are other doctors. Colonel Blake. Trapper." He wisely doesn't mention Major Burns.
"Oh yeah. They're tops. Aces."
"Then you must trust that they have things in hand!"
Hawkeye smiles at him. It's a painful thing to look at. "I want to. I should. I can't. If I sleep, someone will die. Or maybe it's m--"
The sound of choppers cuts him off.
Maybe it's me. Francis is sure that's what he was about to say.
The sedation seems to do the trick. Hawkeye after a night's rest is back to his old self.
Francis rarely notices the cracks. But sometimes he sees them before forgetting again, Hawkeye's smile blinding him to them.
Francis' eyes move back to his sleeping friend.
Henry Blake never tried to be an anchor, as lost at sea as any of them, but he had his moments. he saw Hawkeye as a lighthouse. Put responsibility on his shoulders. Responsibility Hawkeye bears with a surprisingly grace for a man that has declared himself a degenerate rogue.
Francis, the man meant to offer a shoulder to lean on, leaning on Hawkeye. Forgetting Hawkeye's fragile humanity. Comparing him to Him without thought.
Trapper, leaving Hawkeye behind. Forgetting about him after all. Maybe it's the only way he will be able to get this place out of his veins. Scrub the blood off his boots.
(Only God knows why Trapper keeps his silence.)
But B.J., only a week in remembered, and he looked, and he carried Hawkeye home.
Francis feels envy and love in equal parts. “It's good there is someone watching over him.” He tries to explain.
“Isn't there always, Father?” B.J. asks with faux innocence, smiling with a bit of cheek.
Francis looks upward. “Yes, well, He knows when extra hands are needed.”
B.J. sheds his scrubs and lets himself collapse on his own bed at last. “Father, are you saying even God has his hands full with Hawkeye Pierce?”
Francis lets out a startled laugh. “Why--why yes. Yes, I think I might be. Rest well, B.J.…and thank you.”
B.J. hums. “Takes a village to raise a chief surgeon and all that.”
Francis leaves them both in peace.
He has always said a specific prayer before bed. One so engrained it startles him when he actually thinks of it with deliberate attention. Each night he says a blessing for Captain Pierce. It's whispered words so old that it is phrased exactly like that: bless Captain Pierce. Not Hawkeye.
He can't remember when he added it, but it must have been at the beginning, when he was still shy of the fast talking man from Maine.
“Please watch over Hawkeye and B.J. Hunnicutt.” It's simple. A child's prayer, not that of a priest in dialogue with his Lord and Saviour… but it comes with the same breath as he prays for all the souls under his charge at the 4077th.
Because Hawkeye has always been Atlas not Christ, holding this place on his shoulders no matter how heavy, no matter how much it hurts. Even for Francis, nameless and forgotten. Even for Trapper, cold and colourless until Hawkeye gifted him with a smile.
But maybe B.J. will help carry the load. Or at least carry Hawkeye when the load is too much to bear for one man.
It eases his heart to think.