Chapter Text
Hawkeye stopped running when he hit the Pacific. He had to—that was where the train tracks ended. The new railroad had brought him all the way from Portland to San Francisco, but could bring him no further. He could, he supposed, as he stood at the station with no idea where to go from there, get on a boat and keep going. Head further west, across the sea to China, or wherever he washed ashore. Somewhere they needed doctors, probably. People always needed doctors.
A shout rang out—
“Doctor!”
—case in point.
Hawkeye turned. A man was standing at the other hand of the station; as their eyes met, the man raised a hand in greeting and strode towards him. He was tall—as tall as Hawkeye, or maybe a couple inches taller—with a big, blond mustache and an even bigger hat. “BJ Hunnicutt,” he said, holding out a hand.
Hawkeye shook. “Hawkeye Pierce. How’d you know I was a doctor?”
BJ grinned at him, showing all his teeth. “Well, you turned when I shouted ‘Doctor,’ didn't you?”
And, despite everything, Hawkeye found himself charmed. By his boyish grin, by his cheesy mustache, by his broad shoulders, by his big feet, by the wide brim of his hat—his attention caught, all at once, by every inch of BJ Hunnicutt.
“Did you see my advertisement?” BJ asked. And maybe Hawkeye had, at some point over his travels. Hawkeye had spent a lot of time staring blankly out of windows and flipping idly through newspapers. He hadn’t had much else to do, in the days he’d spent on the train. Either way, BJ didn’t wait for his response. “Let me get your bags. I’ll show you to the hospital.”
A hospital—so, somebody needed a doctor. Hawkeye could hardly refuse them now, not when he could help. “How far is it?”
“We’ve got a long ways to go. Hope you don’t mind,” BJ said, leading him over to a horse—just the one horse. Lucky for him, Hawkeye had traveled light, just his medical bag and nothing else. BJ rearranged the saddlebags and strapped it down, and then paused, as if a thought had just occurred to him, and turned to Hawkeye. “Have you ridden before?”
“Sure,” Hawkeye said—and he had, of course. He was no city boy; he’d grown up riding along with his father as he went to visit his patients outside of town. He’d had his own horse, a handsome white gelding he’d named Norman, which had carried him all over the Maine countryside back when he was a kid, before he’d gone away to school. “But only side-saddle.”
BJ laughed at that; the sound made his stomach flip. “You can ride alongside me, but that’s the best I can do.”
“I’ll take it,” Hawkeye said. BJ boosted himself up and over, settling firmly in the saddle. Hawkeye planted a hand on his thigh, warm and solid under his hand, as he followed suit. He shifted as close as he dared, hands on BJ’s waist for lack of anything else to hold onto, the scent of sweat and soap thick in his nose as he swayed just a little too close.
BJ urged the horse on, and they took off at a trot down the road, heading away from the pier. Hawkeye surveyed the city from the back of the horse; it was bigger than he’d thought it would be; he hadn’t really thought much of San Francisco, but in his mind he’d imagined a bunch of dirty old miners scrubbing for gold. But from the pier the train had stopped at, he could see what looked like the whole of the city, and the ferries carrying people to and fro. He supposed that the city wasn’t their ultimate destination, and sure enough, BJ turned the horse away from the city, deeper into the hills of California.
They rode until the sun started to sink beneath the sky, their break paused just in time for them to stop at a ranch that BJ seemed familiar with, judging by the way he let himself in the gate with a call of, “Sanchez!”
A girl rushed out of the ranch, calling out a greeting as BJ clambered down from the horse. He offered Hawkeye a hand, and, although it wasn’t necessary, Hawkeye couldn’t resist putting a hand in BJ’s as he hopped down. He grimaced as his legs wobbled, BJ’s other hand catching his waist to steady him.
“Alright there, partner?” BJ asked.
“Just getting my sea legs,” Hawkeye said. Sanchez—or he assumed the girl was Sanchez, anyways—was still chattering away, even as she took the horse’s reins. She was a pretty blond thing, dressed in bright, cheerful clothing. “This your girl?”
BJ outright laughed at the suggestion. “No, just a friend. I stay here on my trips to the city. Gracias, Louisa.”
Sanchez, or perhaps Louisa, said something else—Hawkeye understood papa and not much else—before leading off the horse.
“I’ll introduce you later,” BJ promised. “We should meet Señor Sanchez, first.”
“Is that what she said?” Hawkeye asked.
“Pretty much. My Spanish is a little rough,” BJ said. “But it’s what I always do, anyways. He’ll be inside, this time of day.”
BJ led the way into the ranch. It was a big, grand building, in its own rustic way—two stories, built around a central courtyard, with white walls and a red-tiled roof. Hawkeye peered around curiously as BJ guided him into a sitting room, where an older gentleman with a mustache even more impressive than BJ’s was seated. He stood when they entered, spreading his arms wide as he greeted them warmly. “Be-jota, que pasa?”
“Oh, you know, same old, same old. Got a friend here, Señor,” BJ said. “Dr. Pierce, newly arrived in town.”
“Doctor Pierce,” Señor Sanchez said, clasping Hawkeye’s hand with both of his. “Bienvenido a mi casa.”
Hawkeye got his name and that was about it. “Thanks,” he said, patting the man’s hand, since he assumed that was an appropriate response. “Call me Hawkeye, Dr. Pierce was my father.”
Sanchez turned to BJ, asking something. “Se llama Hawkeye,” BJ said, so Hawkeye assumed he was clarifying Hawkeye’s name.
“Hawkeye?” Sanchez asked.
“Hawkeye. It means—” BJ paused, frowning. “Louisa!”
Louisa popped her head in through the window. “Si, BJ?”
“Cómo se dice ‘hawk’ en español?” BJ asked.
“Hawk?” Louisa repeated, frowning.
“Yeah, Hawk, like—” BJ pantomimed a bird of prey, flapping his arms like wings.
“Oh, hawk!” Louisa said, in dawning understanding. “El Halcón.”
BJ turned back to Sanchez. “El ojo del halcón.”
“Ah,” Sanchez said, nodding in understanding, as he turned a cheery grin on Hawkeye. “Halconito.”
BJ burst out laughing. “What, what?” Hawkeye asked, smiling himself just at the sound of BJ’s laughter. “What’s Halconito?”
“Little Hawk,” BJ said, still grinning.
Sanchez was chuckling, too, as he patted Hawkeye’s shoulder and said something. “He says we’re welcome to join them for dinner. They’ll be serving it soon,” BJ said.
As if cued by the reminder of the existence of food, Hawkeye’s stomach rumbled loudly. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten, although he must have, at some point, if he’d managed to survive the trip. “I could eat a horse.”
“Well, the stables are out back,” BJ said. “But if you want to join us for dinner, that’ll be in the dining room.”
Sanchez said something else to BJ and then turned to Hawkeye, gesturing between his drink and Hawkeye.
“Oh, a drink? Yes, please, thank you,” Hawkeye said, nodding fervently to get the point across. Sanchez went over to the liquor cabinet and brought down two more glasses. “How do you know these folks, anyways?”
“The vaqueros—the cowboys, I mean—they come into town now and again,” BJ said. “And Louisa is a nurse.”
“The girl outside?” Hawkeye said. “Really?”
“Top-notch,” BJ said. “She grew up helping with injuries on the rancho.”
“Huh. I never would have guessed,” Hawkeye said. Sanchez handed him a glass, and Hawkeye nodded his thanks. “They get a lot of injuries out here?”
“It’s dangerous work,” BJ said, his tone light, as he took his own glass with a murmured gracias. “There’s any number of ways you could get injured in a place like this.”
“Good thing there’s a hospital nearby,” Hawkeye said. “How far is it to town, anyways?”
“About half a day more,” BJ said. “We’ll be on our way after breakfast. But first, dinner.”
They passed the time with some one-sided conversation—on Hawkeye’s part, at least, since Sanchez was speaking Spanish and BJ was mostly speaking English, and although they somehow managed to understand each other, Hawkeye could only understand about one half of the conversation—until a bell called them to dinner with the rest of the Sanchez family—a whole crowd of them, each of whom welcomed Hawkeye enthusiastically to the table.
Dinner was like nothing Hawkeye had ever seen before: some kind of flatbread, which BJ introduced to him as the noble tortilla, beans that Louisa called frijoles refritos, cuts of steak seasoned with something spicy enough that he gasped for air and gulped down the entire cup of wine he’d been served with dinner while Sanchez laughed heartily.
“Not what you’re used to at home, huh?” BJ asked, grinning broadly. “Where is home, anyways?”
“Maine,” Hawkeye said.
BJ whistled. “That’s pretty far. If you’re looking for gold, I’m afraid you missed the rush.”
“I slept in.” Hawkeye took another bite of meat and coughed—it was delicious, but boy, did it burn. “What did they put on this stuff, anyways?”
“Nothing, that’s just how the cattle are, in California,” BJ said, grinning from ear to ear.
“I don’t believe you,” Hawkeye said, leaning in to sniff the meat. Even the smell made his eyes water. “Really, what is it?”
“Chilis,” BJ said. “They grow them around here. You’ll get used to it.”
“I think my tongue might fall off first,” Hawkeye said, but he couldn’t resist taking another bite.
“It’ll grow back,” BJ said. “Maine, though, that is far. What brought you all the way out here?”
“I’m an outlaw,” Hawkeye said. “I’m on the run.”
“Oh, really?” BJ said. “What’s the price on your head?”
“A barrel of clam chowder and a dozen lobster,” Hawkeye said. Suddenly, viscerally, he missed it—the rich, buttery lobster that his father had always made, fresh from his uncle’s boat. His eyes watered, and he sniffled loudly as his nose threatened to run. “This stuff really packs a punch.”
It was delicious, though; he cleaned his plate and drained a few cups of wine before Louisa showed them to the guest room and wished them goodnight. He and BJ stood side-by-side as they washed up in the basin, cleaning off the dirt and sweat of the day’s ride. Hawkeye took the opportunity to shave—he hadn’t since leaving Maine, and his stubble was beginning to look more like a patchy beard. BJ watched from the bed, his eyes intent, as the blade scraped over Hawkeye’s face. He surveyed himself in the mirror, turning his face from side to side, hissing as the motion pulled at the still-healing cut on his neck. BJ’s eyes caught on it, but he didn’t ask. Hawkeye wondered what was going on in that head of his, behind the cheerful smile.
“Sanchez is going to wonder who the hell you’re supposed to be at breakfast,” BJ said.
“All part of my cunning disguise,” Hawkeye said, running his thumb over his cheek and going back for a second pass over a rough spot, angling up his chin to run the blade alongside his jaw. “No one’ll ever know it was me on that train.”
“I knew you couldn’t really be named Hawkeye,” BJ said.
“My real name’s Benjamin Franklin, but don’t tell anyone,” Hawkeye said.
BJ laughed. “Now I know you’re lying.”
“No, no, that’s the honest truth,” Hawkeye said, grinning at him in the mirror. “Benjamin Franklin Pierce.”
“I’d promise not to tell, but I don’t know if anyone would believe me,” BJ said.
Hawkeye wasn’t sure if BJ really believed him, anyways, even if that was his name. He bent to wash his face, and when he straightened up, BJ was there at his side, offering up a towel. “Thanks,” Hawkeye murmured, drying his face.
“That hurt?” BJ asked.
“What? Oh—no. No, just stings,” Hawkeye said. BJ’s eyes seemed to linger on his neck, and for a moment, Hawkeye thought—
But then BJ turned away, his eyes lowered. “Louisa left us some clothes to sleep in,” he said. “Here.”
They dressed for bed, leaving their clothes draped over chairs for tomorrow, BJ leaving his hat carefully balanced on top of it all. They each took a side of the bed without discussing it, sharing in the way Hawkeye had done before with strangers, while traveling.
Sometimes, when he’d had to share a bed with multiple people, it was just cramped and uncomfortable. But like this, with just two people sharing one bed, there was something exciting about it, in a way. Catching eyes with someone from across a mattress, when you knew for sure that you would cross paths for this night and never again; subtly looking to see if they were looking back; lying on the bed in a certain manner to welcome them closer, if they were willing. Sometimes they didn’t seem to pick up the hint, or at least pretended not to notice; sometimes Hawkeye got a certain feeling in his gut that told him not to risk instigating anything or reciprocating.
Now, looking at BJ, Hawkeye thought he felt that familiar tension, like a cord drawn tight that was about to snap. BJ’s eyes were dark, as he looked back, his face cast in shadow by the dim lamplight. Hawkeye hardly dared to breathe; he wondered again if, maybe—
Then BJ rolled over, turning his back to him, and all the air rushed out of his lungs at once. Maybe not, Hawkeye thought, shutting his eyes firmly and resolving to sleep.
Sleep didn’t come easily, these days, and when it did, it was hardly restful. He was always running, in his dreams, along a dirt path lined with trees. In the distance, he heard someone calling his name, shouting for him, and he turned—
And he opened his eyes to find himself standing in a field, surrounded by darkness. A man was staring at him; by his boots and hat, Hawkeye guessed he was one of the ranchhands—what had BJ called them, again? Buckaroos?
“Estás bien, señor?” the man asked.
“Sorry about that. I sleepwalk,” Hawkeye said, although he wasn’t sure if the man spoke any English. “I should go back to the bed, wherever my bed is. You know, this wasn’t a problem on the train. I could walk up and down the train for miles and still be on the train. I don’t know where the ranch is.”
“Rancho de Sanchez?” the man asked.
“Yeah, that’s the place. Rancho de Sanchez,” Hawkeye repeated.
“Ven conmigo,” the man said, gesturing for Hawkeye to follow him. With no other leads, Hawkeye followed him, his bare feet padding across the dirt. On the train, he’d slept in his shoes. Maybe he should have kept the habit.
His feet ached by the time they reached the courtyard gate. The man rang a bell, waited for a few minutes, and then rang it again. Hawkeye leaned against the wall, hands tucked into his armpits, tired to the bone and chilled by the night air.
The gate opened at last, and a young man Hawkeye vaguely recognized from dinner stepped out. He glanced at Hawkeye, probably surprised to see him on the wrong side of the gate, and then exchanged a few words with Hawkeye’s guide, who seemed to be explaining the situation. The young man nodded in understanding, at least, and said, “Ven conmigo, Doctor,” as he opened the gate wider.
“Doctor?” Hawkeye’s guide said, clearly startled, which started another round of conversation—something about doctors, but that was all Hawkeye got—until he yawned, and the young man apologetically ushered him inside. He escorted Hawkeye back to the same guest room, and this time, when Hawkeye stepped inside, the man handed him a key that had been hanging on the wall beside the door and gestured emphatically between him and the door.
“Right, I’ll lock it, thanks,” Hawkeye said.
The young man nodded. “Buenos noches, Doctor,” he said, before shutting the door. Hawkeye locked it and took a moment to wash his feet and examine them—nothing worse than dirt and a few scratches, thankfully. He slipped back into bed quietly, not wanting to wake BJ.
The moment he drew the covers over himself, though, BJ wrapped his arms around him and pulled him in close.
“Where’d you go?” he murmured, his breath puffing against Hawkeye’s skin, sending tingling shivers down his spine.
“Out for a walk,” Hawkeye whispered back.
“Mm. Take me with you next time,” BJ mumbled, his mustache tickling with every word. And then he pressed a kiss to Hawkeye’s neck, and Hawkeye’s heart nearly stopped. “Love you.”
Hawkeye stared at the wall, even as BJ’s arms went lax around him as sleep took him. He wasn’t sure how he could fall asleep after that.
***
Hawkeye woke to the bustling noise of the rancho and the door rattling in its frame. He sat up, rubbing sleep out of his eyes, when BJ exclaimed, “It’s locked!”
“Key’s on the wall,” Hawkeye yawned as he swung his legs out of bed. “Sorry, I had to lock it. I sleepwalk. I went for a nice midnight stroll around the ranch and didn’t want to risk a repeat performance.”
BJ turned, key in hand, to frown at him. “You’re alright?”
“I’m fine. Just lucky we’re not walking to town,” Hawkeye said.
“Let me take a look,” BJ said, crossing the room and kneeling at Hawkeye’s feet. Hawkeye’s breath caught in his throat as BJ took one of his feet in hand, his thumb gently rubbing against the jutting bone of Hawkeye’s ankle. BJ’s fingers ran delicately over the bottom of Hawkeye’s feet, and Hawkeye couldn’t help but giggle, both from the sensation and from a sudden burst of nerves.
“Ticklish?” BJ asked, with a glint of mischief in his eyes.
“Not unless you want a kick in the face,” Hawkeye warned him.
BJ laughed and squeezed his ankle once before he let go and stood. “Come on, they’ll have breakfast ready for us, and then we can get on the road.”
Most of the household, it seemed, was already up. Señora Sanchez was in the kitchen, washing up already, but she stopped to serve them some bowls of porridge and cups of coffee. She said something to BJ, who said, in answer, “Oh, we slept well. Don’t worry about it.”
The sleepwalking, Hawkeye assumed.
Señora Sanchez seemed mostly satisfied by the answer, although she insisted on serving Hawkeye an extra bowl of porridge and pinched his cheek hard enough to hurt when she finally let them leave. BJ was grinning, plainly amused, as they made their way out to the front of the house; it made Hawkeye want to knock that cowboy hat right off his head.
He almost did, except that Louisa shouted out, “Good morning, Doctor!”
“Good morning,” Hawkeye said, lifting a hand to wave at her. Louisa couldn’t do the same, considering that she was leading not one but two horses—one that he had ridden with BJ yesterday, and another horse as well.
“Se llama Dulce,” Louisa said, patting the new horse. She looked at Hawkeye meaningfully. “Dulce.”
“Dulce, got it.” Hawkeye claimed the reins and patted the horse, which whickered softly and nudged his shoulder.
“Thanks, Louisa,” BJ said, taking the reins for his own horse from her.
Louisa said something else, which had BJ nodding in agreement, and then added, “Ride safe.”
“We will, thanks. And tell your father thanks again from me,” BJ said. “Hasta luego.”
“Hasta luego,” Louisa said. She opened her mouth, as if to ask something, only to be cut off from a shout from inside.
“Louisa!”
“Ah, Mama,” Louisa sighed, in the manner of aggrieved children everywhere. She cast a harried look at BJ, whose mustache twitched in amusement, before hurrying off.
BJ mounted his horse, waiting for Hawkeye to do the same, before guiding them back towards the road, waving to the few ranchhands they passed along the way. “About half a day, you said?” Hawkeye asked, as he urged his horse forward to trot alongside him.
“Thereabouts,” BJ said, humming in consideration, and then grinned. “A little less, maybe.”
“Less?” Hawkeye asked.
“There’s a big tree up ahead—can’t miss it,” BJ said. “Last one there’s a rotten egg.”
With that, he was off like a shot. “What—hey!” Hawkeye protested, belatedly urging his horse after him. “That’s cheating!”
BJ left him in the dust, of course. He was grinning from ear to ear when Hawkeye caught up to him, poor Dulce having done the best she could, considering that BJ was a dirty, rotten cheater.
“That was dirty,” Hawkeye told him, leaning forward to pat his horse’s neck. “I demand a rematch.”
“Next time,” BJ said, falling into a more relaxed pace, now. “We’ve established who’s the superior horseman, anyways.”
“Superior—like hell we have!” Hawkeye said. “I was caught off guard, you cheater—”
“All I’m hearing is that you weren’t good enough to catch up,” BJ said, still grinning. Hawkeye wanted to wipe that smug look right off his face; he wanted to throw BJ down and kiss him in the dirt until BJ proclaimed him the superior kisser.
BJ tore his eyes away, returning his attention to the road. “Come on, we should try to make it back before lunch.”
“Why, what happens then?” Hawkeye asked, wondering if BJ was expected somewhere. Really, he didn’t know much about the man, beyond that he was, for some reason, looking for a doctor. He didn’t seem to be sick or injured, so it had to be for somebody else, but BJ hadn’t said anything about it. Maybe because he assumed Hawkeye had read this advertisement he’d sent out.
“Lunchtime,” was all BJ said, though, with a sly little smile. Hawkeye laughed and let the matter lie, for now, content to take in the rolling hills around them. They passed a few herds of cattle, escorted by men on horseback who seemed to know BJ and greeted him as he passed. Hawkeye supposed that if anyone would be popular, it would be the guy who—
What, hired doctors for a rural town?
“What do you do, exactly?” Hawkeye asked.
“I run the hospital,” BJ said.
Hawkeye supposed that explained his friendship with Louisa, if she was a nurse. “What’s it like?”
BJ hummed. “You’ll see when you get there.”
Curious, now, Hawkeye picked up the pace. BJ followed suit, leading the way down the dirt road, past ranches and farms and a few scattered homesteads, through a town, and out of town again.
“The hospital is just up here,” BJ said, turning down a narrower path. Hawkeye kept his eyes peeled, looking for a building up ahead. Small, probably, considering the town they’d just passed through; it hadn’t been much bigger than Crabapple Cove. Wooden, maybe, or stucco like the Sanchez’s ranch, or perhaps made of brick if they’d built it to last. At least one nurse, he’d guess, but probably no other doctors, since BJ had come to the city looking for one—which, now that he really thought about it, was strange. If there was a hospital, there had to be at least one doctor to staff it. Was the doctor sick? He supposed he’d find out once they arrived.
Except, as it turned out, the “hospital” was a patch of dirt with nothing on it but grass and a few trees.
“Some facilities you’ve got here,” Hawkeye said as he dismounted from the horse, BJ doing the same.
“State of the art,” BJ said, grinning at him. “You didn’t see my advertisement, did you?”
“Not a word,” Hawkeye admitted. He lifted a hand to shade his eyes as he surveyed the area. It was nice, sure, but there wasn’t even a foundation, let alone a building. “This is your hospital?”
“It will be. I own the land—Sanchez sold it to me,” BJ said, gesturing broadly to the field in front of them. “I got the idea from the new hospital down in San Francisco—four hundred beds. This one doesn’t need to be that large, although we’ve got the space to expand, later, if we need to. Just a few wards to start. At least one operating room, maybe two, if we can get the surgeons for it. The usual facilities.”
“Huh.” Hawkeye peered out across the sea of grass. He didn’t know much about land, but he’d thought, in a place like this, they might use it for farming or for cattle. “You don’t want to build a ranch here, or something?”
“What would I do with a ranch?” BJ said. “No, this is for a hospital. This town needs one. It needs a doctor, too.”
He looked Hawkeye right in the eyes. Hawkeye could see the hope that Hawkeye would stay—and something more, he thought, something more desperate. A need that Hawkeye could meet.
“Big hospital like this?” Hawkeye said. “You might need more than one. But I’ve got good news for you.”
“Oh, yeah?” BJ said.
“You’ve already got one surgeon,” Hawkeye said, offering up his hand. “As long as you swear not to make me wash any bedpans.”
“I’ll take that deal. Welcome aboard, Doctor,” BJ said, taking Hawkeye’s hand and shaking it firmly.
BJ’s hand was warm and slightly calloused in his, his smile as bright as the sun, and Hawkeye’s heart skipped a beat in his chest.
He always had fallen far too easily.