Chapter Text
The Four Leaf Clover’s name is printed in cheery green lettering on a small sign over a bustling bar. Men and women filter in and out in various states of inebriation, laughing, brawling, and cursing each other out. You smile jovially at them and they wave in greeting as you pass. Most people tend to avoid this area, given that it’s mob territory, but the usuals here have grown fond of you, like a stray cat.
BJ’s gait changes as he walks, matching the ambling pace of most of the barflies milling about the entrance, lighting and putting out cigarettes. His smile is utterly bland and inoffensive and most people’s eyes just skip over him as if he wasn’t there at all.
You step inside and are immediately embraced by an almost overwhelming warmth, the sheer number of people filling every stool, booth, and chair almost boggling the mind, even after half a decade of coming here. You spot the man of the hour, Big John himself, in under thirty seconds, even through all of the moving pints and bodies. Trapper’s the only one who has the audacity to wear a bright yellow pinstripe suit, and the panache to pull it off.
“Hey, Hawkeye!” Trapper shouts when you walk in, prompting another wave of drunken cheers from the rest of the patrons. “Matching shiners, baby, that means I owe you a drink!”
“You woulda owed me a drink anyway, Trap,” you say, embracing him with a kiss on the corner of his mouth. He keeps his arm around you as he turns to size BJ up.
“Who’s the guest?” he asks, a shrewd look in his eyes. BJ looks between you and Trapper with a curiously blank expression before holding his hand out.
“BJ Hunnicutt. I’m Hawkeye’s ride,” BJ offers. Trapper raises his eyebrows.
“I bet you are, BJ,” he leers, looking at you with a question in his eyes.
“He’s with me, Trapper,” you vouch for him, and Trapper nods, ushering the both of you into a booth.
“How’re those new fishnets working out for you, dollface?” Trapper asks when you’re all seated. You don’t have to look at BJ to feel him tense up at your side.
“They’re a dream, I barely notice them,” you report honestly. “Way better than the cheap shit you usually give me.”
“You can give all the credit to Klinger,” Trapper says, gesturing behind you where Klinger is presumably making his way to you. “He’s the one who decided you deserved better than the itchy stuff after you helped us out with Burns’ last attempted raid.”
“I got ‘em on sale too,” Klinger says behind you. Klinger is Trapper’s body man and most trusted lieutenant. If Trapper needs something acquired in this town, you can usually trust Klinger to take care of it, especially if Trapper needs to have an alibi at the time. You’ve never met anyone more adept at getting his hands on something rare or unique. Some people consider the two of them an odd couple, but you’ve never met a pair with more compatible senses of style and sheer audacity.
You turn to see Klinger’s outfit, always guaranteed to be a head turner, and are not disappointed. He’s in a knee length black frock with a little lace veil and a flower in his hair. “I am eternally in your gratitude,” you say, smiling widely up at him.
“You can pay me back with drinks next time I see you at the club,” Klinger says. Trapper cuts a quick look at BJ and you realize that BJ’s being tested. This is a test with stakes too. Nobody messes with Klinger and gets away with it. You smirk into your drink. “Who’s the new guy?” Klinger asks. BJ smiles like sunshine, holding his hand out and making eye contact.
“BJ Hunnicutt, at your service,” BJ says with a ring of real sincerity. “What can I call you?”
“You can call me anytime,” Klinger responds, winking. BJ’s eyes crinkle up in amusement. You cast a glance at Trapper, who is giving BJ a measuring look. You wonder what he’s thinking. “The name’s Klinger, and I’m a lady to you, but not everybody at this table, if that makes sense.”
“Yes ma’am,” BJ says easily, adjusting faster than almost anyone else you’ve seen introduced to Klinger. “May I say that’s a lovely dress?”
“You certainly may,” Klinger preens, doing a little pose. Then he affects an expression of cynicism. “Before this goes any further, let me guess: you’re married?”
“Happily married,” BJ confirms. You raise an eyebrow at him. He shrugs ruefully. “Unhappily separated.”
“Hey, me too,” Trapper commiserates. You look down into your drink. Trapper and Louise have been separated since the day they got hitched. They married for inter-family politics, not whatever doomed emotion is propelling BJ now. “Women, huh? You just can’t get through to ‘em, no offense, Klinger.”
“None taken, Trapper,” Klinger says. “I hear you. My ex-wife Laverne did a number on me before she finally put me out of my misery.”
“It’s not like that,” BJ says, defending his wife in her absence. “Peg just needs certain things from me that I haven’t been able to give her.”
“Oh, I hear you there,” Trapper says, raising his pint in commiseration. “That’s all Louise ever talks about. I’m present in my children’s lives, I pay for their fancy schooling, I pay for her car, clothes, food and drink, and still she’s not satisfied with me. She’s always onto me about coming out to the bar, saying I care more about the family than I care about her. Crazy stuff, I swear, the woman’s a lunatic.”
“You want things to get better between you?” BJ asks. You bite the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from laughing too early. BJ doesn’t know what he’s getting into with Trapper, but you do, and you wanna watch this car crash in real time.
“Sure,” Trapper says. “She’s my wife. The mother of my children. Why wouldn’t I want things to be better between us?”
“Well, have you considered not coming out to the bar?” BJ asks sincerely. Trapper blinks at him in silence for a few shocked seconds, before bursting into loud infectious laughter along with Klinger, who turns to share the story with someone behind him. People eavesdropping in the booth over start laughing too, cackling in their pints and telling the story to other people in earshot. You snicker as well, and BJ casts a confused, almost betrayed expression at you. You can’t help yourself, this is too good.
“Where the hell’d you find this guy, Hawk?” Trapper asks two minutes later, still chuckling.“Not coming out to the bar, Christ Almighty.”
“He’s from California,” you explain. “You know how it is there. It’s all about clean living, Hollywood glamour, and lying to yourself.”
“Well hey, not every city can be Boston, baby,” Trapper says. “Over here it’s all about drinking ‘til you drop, cigarettes in the gutter, and only ever lying to the missus.”
“Is that your philosophy too, Hawk?” BJ asks without looking at you.
“I’m from Maine,” you deflect. “And I’m not married.” BJ’s teeth grind together. Trapper narrows his eyes at him and then looks at you.
“Not that I don’t love to catch up with you, Hawk,” he starts. “But usually when you stop by, it’s not during working hours at my place of business.”
“I’m asking for a favor,” you say, dropping any pretense. He nods and cuts a quick, speaking look at BJ. You nod back, tilting your head to BJ and saying quietly, “Why don’t you wait for me in the car, Beej? We’ve been here for a while, and I’ve got conspicuous wheels.”
BJ casts inscrutable looks at both you and Trapper before standing wordlessly and taking the keys from you. He slides out from the booth, stopping to exchange words with Klinger before stepping out of the bar entirely. You wonder what he said, if he’s pissed about being cut out. He’s so stone faced sometimes, you can’t help but want to chisel some emotion into him.
“You wanted to talk?” Trapper asks with the glint of an edge in his voice. You whip around to face him, caught out in your musings. He’s smirking at you, one eyebrow raised.
“Right. There’s a dame,” you say.
“When isn’t there a dame with you?” Trapper asks, rolling his eyes.
“She’s got a rich husband from California who wants her dead and’s paying Flagg to do it.” Trapper whistles low under his breath. He’s been around every time you’ve had to deal with one of Flagg’s schemes.
“We can’t take out Flagg, Hawk, you know that,” Trapper warns. “He’s got way too many friends in the force and things have already been tense with the pigs as it is.” You’re disappointed, but not surprised. For as long as you’ve known Trapper, he’s been limited by what the family could and could not do.
Once upon a time, you thought he’d want to escape those limitations, run away and build a new life with you. You even came to him with the offer, plane tickets and everything, but you underestimated his loyalty to his blood, and he underestimated your loyalty to him. Now you’re stuck in his city, haunting his doorstep like the ghost of the life you’ll never have together.
“Don’t worry about Flagg, I’ll handle him,” you say, resolving to figure out how to do that later. “It’s the broad I’m worried about. Flagg knows where I go to ground, and I need a safe place to keep her.”
“Where is she now?”
“She’s at a hotel with Radar under a false name, but that’s the first place Flagg will check.”
“Why didn’t you just bring her to my apartment?” Trapper asks. You blink at him. You didn’t realize his apartment was on offer. You do some quick thinking and adjust your plans to include that.
“Flagg might have been following us from where we saw him last, I didn’t want to risk leading him right to her. I was hoping you could get someone else to take her to your place in my stead.”
“I’ll handle it myself, Hawk, I don’t trust any of these lousy bastards with a beautiful woman,” Trapper says.
“How’d you know she’s beautiful?” you ask. Trapper raises an eyebrow at you.
“With you? They’re always beautiful.” He narrows his eyes. “Speaking of which, what’s the deal with Hunnicutt?”
“He’s a private dick too, based in California. He was supposed to be tracking down the dame for the husband, but he switched sides when he realized what the deal was.”
“You sure you can trust him?” Trapper asks skeptically. “I mean, not to be ragging on your new guy, but-”
“Yes, I’m sure,” you confirm, ignoring the ‘new guy’ bit. “Penobscott himself confirmed it in earshot.”
Trapper nods. “Alright then, tell me where you’ve got her stashed and I’ll collect her. If you need to meet me, come to the bar again and let Klinger know you wanna see me. I’ll get a message to you if I need to, otherwise stick to your local haunts. Flagg knows enough about you to spot you when you switch up a routine. ”
“Yes sir,” you say, before giving him Margaret’s hotel room information. You start to slide out of the booth, but he catches your hand in his, stopping you. His face softens, and you see all the things he can’t say scrawled across his face.
Be careful. I love you. I’m sorry I can’t do more. I’m sorry I keep choosing the mob over you. I’m sorry it’s always gonna be like this. I’m sorry we’re not sipping margaritas in Florida without a care in the world right now.
You may have been projecting at the end there. Maybe.
“I’ll see you, Trap,” you say, pressing a quick kiss to his knuckles. Then you’re exiting the pub, leaving Trapper behind with the warmth, raucous voices and violent good humor.
As soon as you step outside, you pull out a new cigarette, lighting it while your hands are still warm. BJ’s waiting in the driver’s side of the car, staring at you with something evaluating in his eyes.
“Good talk?” he asks as you get in.
“Good enough. He’s gonna take Margaret someplace safe, but we’re gonna have to handle Flagg ourselves.”
“How are we supposed to do that?” BJ asks.
“Well, Flagg’s known for flying perfectly under the radar until he does show up and makes a lot of noise. The only real lead I can imagine is a priest I know in the area.”
“A priest?”
“Yeah, he runs an information network for the mob in exchange for money to take care of the orphans. If anyone knows where Flagg is, he might.”
“Where can we find him?” BJ asks.
“He’s nearby,” you say. “Just go straight until I tell you. It’s a big Cathedral, you can’t miss it.”
There’s a silence in the car.
“Your cuff-links,” BJ says, apropos of nothing. “Four leaf clovers.” You blink at him, surprised he noticed.
You look down at your lucky cuff-links. Trapper gave them to you more than half a decade ago, told you that you’d need all the luck you could get, getting into the PI business. You’ve worn them every day of work since.
“What about them?”
“You got them from Trapper?” BJ asks. You nod.
“They’re lucky,” you say.
“Are they really.” His voice is oddly blank.
“I haven’t died once wearing them,” you respond. “I've come close though. I guess it all depends on how you measure luck, and its relative goodness.”
“Are the fishnets lucky too?” BJ asks pointedly.
“No, I just think it’s fun to fuck in them,” you bite, abruptly fed up with his line of interrogation. “Will you stop dancing around whatever question you want to ask?”
“You’re sure you can trust him?” BJ asks, in a ludicrous mirror of Trapper’s previous inquiry. “I mean, he works for the-”
“He’s the only person in this city I do trust,” you interrupt. You look out the window and notice your surroundings. “Turn left on Washington. Our stop’s on the right.”
“Right,” BJ says, making the turn. You take another drag of the cigarette and then throw the rest of it out the window.
*
The Cathedral is a very physically imposing building, all high Gothic arches and concrete eaves, but its appearance is humanized by the swarms of children and teenagers who treat the building like Grand Central Station. Father Mulcahy’s ministry in the city has mostly geared towards keeping the youth safe and well-fed, if not especially respectful of the law. You tuck your wallet into your waistband.
“Keep your hands on your wallet,” you mutter to BJ as you begin to filter through the children. “Sticky fingers in this bunch.” BJ nods seriously, taking out a few bills from his wallet and tucking those in his outer pockets, before sticking the billfold under his hat.
You raise your eyebrows. “I like to reward childish audacity,” BJ says, as a few of the kids sneak fingers into his pockets and he turns a blind eye. You smile at him widely, before shaking your head and walking into the building.
“You know, you’re pretty adorable for someone so hard-boiled,” you say, and he laughs brightly. His laughter echoes in the stone interior of the entrance, alerting Father Mulcahy, who is crouched over a tiny kid with bright red hair.
“Hawkeye?” Father Mulcahy asks in shock, standing up and touching the cross hanging around his neck. “Hawkeye, is that you?”
“Hey, Father,” you say, waving a bit. He blinks at you and smiles, something like gratitude filling his eyes. You swallow dryly.
“Hawkeye, it’s so lovely to see you,” he says, and his voice is so earnest it makes you want to walk straight out of the Cathedral and smoke the rest of your cigarettes in the car. “What brings you down here? Are you working or are you here to catch up?”
“We were wondering if maybe you’d be willing to lend us your eyes and ears for a second,” you say. Mulcahy’s eyes widen and he nods. He murmurs a few words to the kid, producing a quarter from behind his little ear and pressing it into his palm.
“Please, follow me,” the father says, leading you and BJ into a narrow hallway that takes you to his small office. You look around, trying to see if the decor has changed since you were here last. It’s been a while. You used to spend hours with him and Trapper here, stealing sips from the sacramental wine and losing poker games.
“May I ask who your companion is?” Mulcahy asks, sitting down behind his busy desk, covered in scrawled notes written in shorthand and pamphlets advertising the Cathedral’s various ministries and themed services.
“Father, this is BJ Hunnicutt, he’s a PI like me. Beej, this is Father Mulcahy, the hippest priest in town.”
“Hawkeye flatters me,” the father says, rolling his eyes. “It’s nice to meet you, BJ. Any friend of Hawkeye’s is a friend of mine.”
“The pleasure’s all mine, Father,” BJ says, his face the appropriate balance between reverent and pleasant.
“Well, how can my eyes and ears be of service to you?” Mulcahy asks enthusiastically. “I’m always happy to help out on one of Hawkeye’s cases.”
“We’re looking for any skinny on Flagg,” you say. “He’s been contracted by BJ’s client to kill mine.” Mulcahy raises his eyebrow at BJ.
“I switched sides halfway through,” BJ says, shrugging and Mulcahy nods, though only after a moment of brief contemplation.
“Well, let me see,” he says, rifling through a selection of the notes on his desk, organized in some inscrutable fashion that you don’t even attempt to parse.
“Busy week?” you ask, as he continues to flip long after you expected him to stop.
“Well, most of these are about a shootout at Rosie’s, but I’m fairly sure you already know about that one,” Mulcahy says. Finally he stops flipping and looks up at you owlishly through his spectacles. “Well, I’ve heard neither hide nor hair about Flagg since the last time the two of you crossed paths. There have been the usual rumors, of course. Flagg spotted waterboarding a fish at the docks, Flagg spotted pulling a car like an ox down sixth street, Flagg spotted killing a man with a laundry hamper in a hotel basement. Actually, come to think of it, that last one might be true.”
“When was that?” BJ asks.
“Oh, early this morning.”
“Then that’s not related,” you say. “Back at square one, I guess.”
“I should warn you, there was a policeman poking around here earlier,” Mulcahy says. “But he wasn’t looking for you.”
“Who was he looking into?” you ask.
“Well, he wanted to know if Radar had been living with us recently,” he says. “And if not, where he could be staying. He mentioned something about a missing person’s report, but the only person in the city who’d file for him is you, and you would have asked me directly.”
“Did you know the cop?” you ask, your brow furrowed.
“No, which was another factor that concerned me,” Mulcahy says in a ponderous tone. “Usually Sherman Potter handles cases dealing with our youth, but this was a stranger.”
“You think he could be working with Flagg?” you ask.
“Well, you know how close Flagg is to the police,” Mulcahy says. “But I don't know why he would be asking after Radar if this is your case.”
“What’d you tell him?” you ask.
“I told them I couldn’t remember Radar’s face, and I hadn’t seen him around here in a long time,” Mulcahy says. “I even suggested he might have gone back to Iowa.”
“Did the cop believe it?” BJ asks, his eyes narrowed.
“I’m not sure. I certainly hope so,” Father Mulcahy says.
“That’s great work, Father. I’ll be sure to let Radar know someone’s sniffing around him tomorrow morning. He might have his own case going right now, you know how he is,” you say. Mulcahy nods. You suddenly feel an overwhelming desire to leave this office. “Well, if that’s all, we should probably get going.”
“So quickly?” Mulcahy asks plaintively, standing up and coming around the desk.
“Well, Flagg waits for no man,” you offer, backing up to the door. “And I would hate to impose on you.”
“It’s not an imposition at all. Hawkeye, I really have missed you these past years,” Father Mulcahy says desperately. You smile tensely at him.
“Well, you know how it is for a gumshoe in this city,” you say, nodding awkwardly and turning to walk away. “Too many crimes in a day, not enough hours.”
“Radar has forgiven me,” he blurts out, and you freeze, before turning to face him again, “why can’t you?”
“There’s nothing to forgive, Father,” you say with all of the finality you can muster. “Really. I’m glad you and Radar are still close. You were very good to him before Henry took him in.”
“Hawkeye, you have to consider the position I was in,” he continues bullishly. He always was uncommonly insistent. You swallow roughly. “The family made it clear what they wanted, I didn’t have a choice-”
“Yes, you did,” you interrupt, your voice just a hair too sharp. Mulcahy flinches backwards. So does BJ, for that matter. You take a deep breath and smile as widely as you can, force sincerity behind it. “You just chose correctly. I had no right to ask for what I did. There’s nothing to forgive.”
“Oh, Hawkeye,” Mulcahy says, and now his voice is so saturated with pity you can feel your skin crawling under your clothes.
“We should really be going,” BJ interrupts, stepping forwards and blocking Mulcahy’s view of you. “Lives at stake and all. It was a pleasure to meet you, Father. I’ll be praying for you in your quest to care for the youth here.”
“Thank you, BJ,” the Father says, his voice slightly bewildered.
“No, thank you,” BJ says, smiling brightly. “Let’s get out of here, Hawk.” His voice is less bright with you, softer, more intimate. You nod dumbly and let him usher you out of the narrow halls of the grand Cathedral.
BJ waits until you get into the car before he says, “You don’t have to tell me,” in a leading tone. You roll your eyes, pull a cigarette out of your packet.
“It’s not a big deal,” you start, lighting up with shaky hands. “A few years back, he performed a funeral for someone I loved very much. The Father was afraid I would do something rash, so he told me that if it ever felt like I was on the edge and he could do something about it, I should come to him and he’d step in, no matter what.”
“About six months later, the Mob asked him to perform a wedding and the night before, I showed up at his place, plastered to the gills. I begged him not to perform the ceremony. I told him I thought it might kill me.” You take your next drag. “It was a beautiful service. I didn’t stay through the reception.”
BJ is silent for a long time. You stare out the side window, up at the imposing arches of the Cathedral. You wonder what he’s thinking. You wonder if he’s judging you.
BJ touches your wrist, and you turn to him. He reaches up and touches your cheek and then kisses you very gently. You let him, let your eyes shut, let yourself forget this place. It’s easier than you think it should be. Eventually he pulls away an inch, letting your noses brush against each other as you trade breaths.
“Wanna get out of here?” he whispers and you nod. He presses another kiss to your lips, sweet and lingering like honey, before he leans back into the seat, shifting the car into reverse and getting back on the road. You stare at his profile against the blurry cityscape, and think of nothing but the jazz on the radio.
*
By the time you get back to your place, it’s too late to try and run down any new leads.
“Do you want me to drop you off at your apartment or the office?” BJ asks when he nears the neighborhood.
“My apartment works, if you know where it is,” you say.
“I was tracking you for days, Hawkeye, I found your club. I know where you live,” BJ says, flatly offended on behalf of his investigative skills.
“Where have you been staying?” you ask.
“I got a hotel about ten minutes away from your place,” BJ says.
“How’s the view?”
“I’m sure the skyline looks gorgeous behind the billboard for shaving cream,” BJ says, parking the car in front of your apartment building and handing you the keys. You both get out and stand in front of the walk up.
“If you want, we can drive to the office and get your rental from the lot,” you offer, but he shakes his head.
“I’ll walk over. It’s warm out,” he says. You nod. You both stand in the silence for a long moment.
“Well, I guess I’ll just go up then,” you say slowly.
“I could walk you up,” BJ offers, just a hair too fast. Your breath stutters in your chest. His eyes are bright blue in the moonlight, like the skies in Maine, like the ocean in Florida. His hands are fisted tightly in his pockets.
“I’d like that.” He walks to your side and offers you his arm, and you take it, letting him escort you up the flights of stairs to your door. The silence between you feels loaded with potential in a way that makes your heart race.
When you make it to your door, you turn and stare at him. He looks at your lips, then back at you, something scared and hopeful in his eyes. Without breaking the silence, you step forward, and he meets you in the middle, pressing you up against your front door and kissing you. You wrap your arms around him, and the two of you stand there for a long time, trading lingering dreamy kisses like you just went on a date instead of a failed clue hunt, like you’re going steady, and your dad’s waiting inside with the shotgun.
You pull apart when you can’t breathe anymore, when the glitter in your chest feels like it’s going to leak out through your eyes if you don’t get your bearings.
“Come inside with me,” you murmur. “Forget your stupid hotel room.”
“I want to,” BJ says, pressing one, two, three quick kisses against your lips. Your eyes flutter shut. “It’s a bad idea.”
“Come inside anyways,” you entreat. You never pretended to have any shame.
“God,” BJ groans, his voice so broken-up you almost feel bad. “God, Hawkeye, you just kill me, you know that? I haven't ever. I don’t-” he breaks off. He crushes you back against him for the most aggressive kiss yet, hot and searching, his hands sliding under your jacket and holding you tight. He pulls away, staring at you with dark eyes and red lips. “I shouldn’t.”
“Why not?”
“It was supposed to just be the motel room.”
“You’re saying you only want me in a motel room?” you ask, almost offended.
“I’m saying I want you everywhere. I wanted you in the Cathedral, I wanted you in the car, and I want you here.”
“So what’s the problem?” you ask, running your hands up and down his suspenders. He kisses you again. And again. Your toes curl in your shoes.
“Don't you think this is moving too fast?” he asks plaintively.
“No, do you?”
“No, that’s the problem,” BJ groans, kissing you again. This time you pull away.
“Come inside with me or go, but we’re flirting with an indecency charge right now.”
BJ stares at you for a long moment, then leans in and kisses your cheek. Your shoulders sag in disappointment.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, Hawkeye,” BJ murmurs. “Bright and early. You’ll barely miss me.”
“Miss you? Who misses you?” you say in a despondent voice. He chuckles.
“That’s the spirit.” Then he turns around and walks down the stairs, leaving you feeling very sorry for yourself.
You walk inside your apartment, tossing your keys on the sofa and rubbing your eyes with the heels of your hands. God, you’re exhausted. You look around for Henry.
“You know, Pierce, you should really consider locking that window of yours,” Flagg says at your back.
You turn and open your mouth to shout for help, but before you can, you see the butt of Flagg’s pistol and then everything goes dark.
*
Your head hurts. You can’t see anything, and for a second you panic, before realizing your eyes are shut. Opening them is harder than you expected, which probably has something to do with the throbbing in your skull, like a battering ram against your forehead. You feel something cold and tacky on the center of your forehead, dripping down the bridge of your nose, stinging on your lips.
You look around your apartment, and remember exactly what brought you to this point.
“Oh good, you’re awake,” Flagg says. “I was getting tired of you ignoring my questions.”
You try to lash out at him, but your arms are bound tightly to the arms of a chair you regret buying, your legs tied up as well.
“What brings you to my humble abode?” you ask, sneering up at him and batting your eyes. Well. Attempting to, at least.
“You know what I want, and I know you know what I want, so let’s not pretend that you don’t know what we both know you know,” Flagg says. You scrunch your face up at him, the throbbing in your head reverberating around your ears with every inane word.
“You’ve lost coherence since our last meeting,” you say. Flagg slaps you with an open palm, and your head whips to the side, sending your vision scattering out of your head. Your head lolls back and you feel yourself almost lose consciousness.
“One of these days that mouth of yours is going to get you killed,” Flagg chides in an almost pleasant voice. “Today, however, your mouth is going to save your life.”
“You couldn’t afford me,” you retort, your words slurred with pain.
“You’re going to give me the location of Margaret Penobscott,” Flagg says, ignoring you and pulling out his gun. “Or I’m going to execute you in that chair and disappear your body.”
“Who’s Margaret Penobscott?” you ask futilely.
Flagg backhands you and the world goes spinning like a globe.
“Try again. Where is she?”
“I sent her on a plane to the Bermuda Triangle,” you confess. “Nobody will ever find her.” Flagg punches you in the face. Hard. Fresh blood spills over your lips and neck, dripping on your leg. You spit more out onto the ground. God, you hope you don’t lose a tooth. So much of your charisma is contained in your winning smile.
“Strike one, Pierce,” Flagg says. “Only one more to go.” You blink in confusion. You don’t know from sports, but you’re fairly sure there are supposed to be three strikes.
“Okay, fine, I’ll tell you,” you say. Flagg leans in. “Check your father’s garage. I stashed her there last night after we made love.” This time you think you actually deserve the punch he throws at you. It was worth it, you think, even as your ears ring and you shiver in pain.
“Big mistake, Pierce,” Flagg says. “You’ve given me no choice but to kill you.” He levels his gun at your forehead and cocks it.
“Bullshit,” you spit. “You won’t kill me.”
“Oh, won’t I?” Flagg asks.
“No, you won’t,” you say, blinking and trying to shake off the pain. The blood rushes wildly around your eyes. You think you might die in this chair. God, you hate this chair so much. You really don’t know why you bought this chair at all. “Because if you kill me, you’re right back where you were when you started. I’m the only person you can question, so I’m not dying until you get that location out of me.”
Flagg presses the gun to your head. You swallow sharply and close your eyes, waiting for his judgement.
“You’re right,” Flagg says eventually, dropping the muzzle. “You are the only person I could get this address out of. That does make you indispensable to me.” You sigh in relief as he walks away from you, closer to the window. You’ve bought yourself valuable time, now you just have to stall, until. Until what? God, your head hurts. “Unless of course, you had an unusually reliable assistant.”
You freeze. Flagg turns towards you and smiles widely. “You see, I’ve been looking into you, Pierce. You’re a very successful PI, relatively speaking. You handle more cases than almost any other firm in town, even with only one investigator.”
“Well, I have been referred to as the savant of sleuthing,” you say, your heart in your throat. God, please don't let him know about Radar, please don't let him know about Radar, please don't let him know about Radar.
“Spare me your posturing, Pierce,” Flagg barks. “It’s an open secret that your receptionist Radar O’Reilly, the little Irish scrounger you took in, is the real brains behind the operation. I have no doubt that he knows where the broad is, and if he knows, then you’re no use to me alive. The only question is: where is Walter?”
“Walter? Who’s Walt-” you try. Flagg ignores you.
“Now I’ve tried to look into where that boy spends his nights. He moved to the city around the same time you did, a bit over five years ago. First, he lived with that bleeding heart priest down at the Cathedral, before he moved in with your old partner. After Blake died, his apartment was rented out to another family entirely, but the scrounger didn’t go back to the church. So where did he go?”
“Listen, Flagg, you’ve got me all wrong. My receptionist is a busty redhead, five foot eight and engaged to a Marine-” you babble until Flagg shuts you up with a quick backhand across your face. Stars scatter across your vision again, and you swallow down bile as it rushes up your esophagus.
“Well, my first guess was this apartment,” Flagg says, continuing where he left off from. “After all, you’re still shelling out money to Blake’s widow and kids, it makes sense that you’d take in the ward as well. But when I broke in, there were only signs of one person living here.”
“I’m between relationships right now,” you say hoarsely, spitting a little blood on your floor.
“So if Radar doesn’t have an apartment of his own,” Flagg muses. “And he doesn’t live with you or the orphans, there’s only one other place where he could theoretically spend his nights.” You swallow dryly, your entire body tense. “The office of Blake & Pierce probably has space for a cot, doesn't it? Maybe even a little kitchenette?”
You don’t speak, your throat paralyzed with horror. Flagg stares at you for a long second, before a deranged smile breaks across his face.
“That’s what I thought. Well, Pierce, since you’re not being very cooperative, I think I’ll test my little hypothesis. I’ll leave you here, at my mercy, and pay a visit to your offices, and if Radar is there-”
“Stop,” you blurt out, your voice harsh and desperate. “Stop it. You can’t do that. Even if he is there, which he isn’t, he’s just a kid. You can’t-”
“I think you’ll find that I can, will, and want to,” Flagg interrupts, a cold look in his eyes. “Unless, of course, you made it unnecessary for me to talk to him at all.”
You stare at him in horrified silence, weighing your options as he smirks at you. Finally you sigh, begging for forgiveness from a God who will not hear you.
“She’s in the Fairford Estates complex. Apartment #2240,” you say.
“Now, wasn’t that easy?” Flagg asks, walking to your phone and dialing a number. You look towards the ceiling and try to figure out if there’s any way out of here. Now that Flagg has Margaret’s location, there’s really no reason to keep you alive at all. You can only hope that his vendetta won’t extend to Radar. Flagg reels off the address and hangs up the phone, sizing you up with a vicious smile on his face.
“You’re gonna kill me now, aren’t you?” you ask, fatalistically. Flagg laughs out loud.
“You know, Hawkeye, for all your faults, you’ve got a great understanding of the human psyche,” he says, before he puts the muzzle of the gun against your head. So this is it. This is how you go out.
The lock on the front door jiggles. You freeze, your eyes flicking towards the door. Flagg furrows his brow at you.
“What did you-” he starts before the door opens entirely. Flagg looks up and the entire world moves in slow motion, like your apartment is flooded and everyone is moving through water.
“Hawk, I don’t know what I was thinking-” BJ says in a rush at your threshold before he takes in the scene, Flagg standing over you with a gun to your temple, you bound to the chair. You see BJ process what’s happening in an instant, intelligent eyes darting between you, before his hand is inside his jacket. Flagg turns to shoot him, but BJ’s gun is already out and then he’s firing, one, two, three times, his hands steady, his expression ice cold.
Flagg’s body jerks as each of the bullets hits him square in the chest, knocking him towards the back wall. You watch, eyes wide and unbelieving, as Flagg stumbles and topples backwards out of the open window, down into the dumpsters below. You think you hear sirens in the distance. You wonder if anyone saw him. You wonder where Henry is.
“Hawkeye, darling, Hawkeye, please look at me, come on,” BJ says, holding your head in his big hands, his eyes wide and scared. You didn’t notice him come across the room. Your head hurts.
“Henry,” you say, with growing panic in your voice. BJ starts undoing the ropes around your wrists and ankles.
“No, it’s me, BJ,” he responds.
“The cat,” you clarify through numb lips. “Where’s the cat?”
“I don’t know, Hawk,” BJ says. “We need to get you to a hospital, darling, come on.”
“No hospitals,” you insist. “Nothing’s broken. I’m just concussed.”
“What, did you go to med school or something?” BJ asks, gently wiping blood off your face with his handkerchief, his hand cradling your jaw.
“Yes, actually,” you complain.
“Then what in the hell are you doing as a PI?” BJ asks, exasperated, trying and failing to pull you to your feet.
“I ask myself similar questions. We gotta go, Margaret’s in danger.”
“What happened?”
“He threatened Radar, I had to-“
“Never mind, you can tell me in the car. Let’s go sweetheart, come on, darling,” BJ rambles, maneuvering you to your feet with tender hands. Your knees wobble and give out under you once you stand, so BJ hoists you into his arms in a bridal carry. Your head rests against his holster, and you smell gunpowder, hot and sharp, as BJ carries you out of the building and down into the parking lot.
He loads you into his rental car, cradling your head gently so as not to jostle you. “Where do I have to go?” he asks.
“Head towards the Cathedral, there’s an apartment building nearby,” you say, your brain aching against the inside of your head.
“Okay, just hold on Hawkeye, we’ll be there in a bit,” BJ rambles in low soothing tones, like you’re a scared animal. “Margaret’s a nurse, she’ll be able to take care of you.”
He starts the car and drives off into the night. You wince as your head bumps against the headrest and then twist in your seat until you’re sitting more comfortably.
You were just about to die, you realize with a strange clarity. BJ had no reason to be at your apartment, but there he was, just in the nick of time, saving you like a knight in one of the fairytales your mother used to read you when you were growing up.
“You came back,” you say dreamily, staring at BJ’s face in profile, his worried expression backed by city lights and the concrete of the highway.
“Yeah, I know, Hawkeye, you’re welcome,” BJ says, looking in the rear view mirror.
“No, I mean,” you pause as the words don’t quite attach themselves together in your brain. The street lights rush past you in a psychedelic haze, and you feel both nauseous and awestruck at the world around you. Your head pounds and your eyes shut against your will. “You didn’t know Flagg was there. You weren’t being a hero. You came back for me.”
There’s a long silence in the car. Then, one of BJ’s gun-calloused hands interlaces with yours.
“Of course, Hawkeye. Of course I came back for you.”
*
Even with your concussion, you’ve made the drive from your place to Trapper’s apartment so many times you could direct someone there from the trunk. BJ breaks all kinds of speed limits on the way, swinging into the parking lot with a force that threatens to tip the car over. Your legs are still shaky, so BJ acts as a crutch as you make your way up to apartment #2240.
You slam on the door with both fists, knocking as obnoxiously as possible. Trapper will probably know it’s you based on noise generated alone.
“Little pig, little pig, let me in,” you say deliriously through the door. The door opens to reveal a secured deadbolt and part of Trapper’s face.
“Hawkeye, is that you?” Trapper says. “What are you doing here? I thought we were splitting up and laying low.”
“Plans changed, let us in,” you say. Trapper undoes the bolt and lets you and BJ in, shutting and locking the door behind you. He’s in his sleep pants and nothing else, his hair messy, his back-up piece tucked in his hand.
“Shit, Hawkeye, who did this to you?” he says, reaching out to cup your face in his hand. BJ stiffens beside you.
“Flagg,” you say. “He broke into my apartment.”
“Through the window near your bed?” Trapper asks angrily. “Hawkeye, how many times have I told you to lock that-“
“As if he couldn’t pick a locked window,” you interrupt testily.
“Where is he, what happened?” Trapper asks.
“I shot him,” BJ says in a flat voice. “He took three bullets center mass, fell out of the window.” Trapper nods, turning back to you.
“I’ll send Klinger to take care of the body. Come on, sweetheart, let’s get you an ice pack and some Aspirin.” He turns and leaves his piece on the side table by the couch, moving towards the back hallway.
“We don’t have time for-“ you start before Margaret enters from the hallway. She’s in one of Trapper’s pajama shirts and not much else, except a few hickeys.
“What’s all this noise?” Margaret says grumpily, rubbing her eyes.
“You don’t trust those old bastards, huh?” you ask drily.
“Hey, don’t blame me, I didn’t make the first move,” Trapper mutters.
“Hawkeye, you’re hurt,” Margaret gasps after getting a good look at you. “Get over here. John, get the first aid kit.”
“As I was just saying, we don’t have time for all that,” you say. “Penobscott knows where you are, we have to move you.”
“How does he know where I am?” Margaret asks.
“He had a friend beat it out of me,” you respond. Margaret’s eyes widen and she reaches out and touches your temple, where a nasty bruise is no doubt developing. “He was threatening Radar, I’m sorry, I didn’t have a choice.”
“Don't apologize,” Margaret says sharply, pain in her eyes.
“I’ll grab the first aid kit, we’ll take it with us on the way,” Trapper says, heading to the kitchen. “BJ, can you call Klinger? The number is-“
“I have Klinger’s number, thanks,” BJ says, walking to the phone. Trapper blinks in surprise and you remember BJ’s quiet conversation with Klinger just hours before. He shrugs at you and heads to the back hallway.
“Oh, Hawkeye, I’m so sorry,” Margaret says in a low voice when it’s just you and her, her thumb moving anxiously over your bruised skin. “I can’t believe he hired a hitman, I had no idea he could do something so awful.”
“It’s all part of the job,” you say. “I’ve taken worse beatings before, and I’ll take worse still.”
“I just feel so stupid,” she says in clear frustration. “How could I have been so blind about him? Why did it take me so long to leave?”
“It’s not your fault, Margaret,” you insist. “You fell in love. That’s not a crime.”
Margaret blinks up at you and says, very earnestly, “I’m sorry I called you sleazy.”
“I am sleazy,” you say, smiling at her.
“I know, but I’m still sorry I said it,” she reiterates. You laugh at the look on her face. “I’m going to get dressed, but as soon as we get out of here, we’re going to look at that concussion of yours, don’t think I didn’t notice it.” She walks further into the apartment and you sigh anxiously, walking to the window and looking out into the parking lot. You don’t see anyone but your vision isn’t great in the darkness. BJ talks quietly on the phone, wrapping up the conversation from what you can hear.
“Alright, let’s hit the road,” Trapper says, coming out of the back hallway fully dressed with the first aid kit in his hands and Margaret on his heels. “Where exactly are we going?”
“I’ve been told to direct you all to Uncle Abdul’s place, whatever that may be,” BJ answers, hanging up the phone.
“Perfect,” Trapper says. “We’ll take two cars, one tailing to make sure we’re not being followed.”
“I’ll pull the car around,” BJ says, making his way outside.
“Going somewhere?” an unfamiliar voice asks as soon as the door opens. Margaret gasps in fear, clutching at Trapper’s arm. Trapper instinctively shuffles to the side to try and shield Margaret with his body, as BJ raises his arms in the air, backing up slowly. “Oh, Detective Hunnicutt. This is certainly a disappointment - I thought you might have died somewhere, but this is far worse. A turncoat?”
“Donald Penobscott, at last,” you say, shifting sideways to block Donald’s sight line to the gun on the side table.
“You must be Hawkeye Pierce,” Penobscott says in a faux-cheerful voice, a violent mania in his eyes. “The other PI.” He turns back to BJ and makes a tsk-ing noise in the back of his throat.
BJ drops his arms a second to try and get to his gun, but Penobscott fires a warning shot by his head, and that stops him in his tracks. Your breath catches in your throat.
“Donald, stop it,” Margaret yelps, but she is summarily ignored.
“Let’s not do anything rash,” BJ says cautiously.
“Now I see why you stopped returning my calls. Got suckered in by her pretty face and long legs, huh?” Penobscott asks.
BJ flicks a look at you under his eyelashes. “Something like that,” he says in a cool, even voice. Penobscott waves his gun at him.
“Get your gun out of your holster and put it down on the ground in front of you, now,” Donald says. BJ very calmly sets the gun down in front of him. “Now walk backwards. I said, walk!” BJ does, something tense and furious in his posture.
“You don’t wanna do this,” Trapper says. Penobscott’s gun sweeps across the room to point squarely at Trapper’s head.
“Honestly, I have no idea who you even are,” Penobscott says. “But I don’t need to. All I need is for Margaret to come with me.”
“She’s not going anywhere with you,” you say. “You’re outnumbered.”
“You’re outgunned,” Penobscott retorts, waving the muzzle around wildly. “And my partner will be here soon.”
“Partner?” you ask. “You don’t mean Flagg, do you?” Penobscott visibly reacts. You push your advantage. “Oh, BJ, Donald doesn’t know.”
“What a shame,” BJ says coolly. “How exactly did you think Hawkeye made it here before you?”
“What do you mean?” Penobscott asks, blinking wildly. His forehead is sweaty, you note. There’s a reason he hired a hitman to do his dirty work. He doesn’t have it in him to really pull the trigger.
“He means Flagg took three bullets to the chest in my apartment,” you answer. “And nobody is coming to save you.” Penobscott wavers at that. “Now you can leave now and escape this situation completely unscathed, as long as you just put the gun down and walk away.”
There’s a long tense silence in the room as you all wait for Penobscott’s decision. You think maybe you can get everyone out of this if nobody makes any sudden moves.
Suddenly, Margaret lunges for the side table behind you, grabbing Trapper’s gun and aiming it square at Donald’s head. Trapper jumps to the side just before Donald fires a shot into the wall where they had just been. You curse under your breath. Damn this woman and her sudden movements, you can never predict her.
“Oh, now this is pathetic,” Penobscott laughs, visibly relaxing his posture. “You’re going to shoot me? You?”
“What, you don’t think I will?” Margaret asks, something steely in her voice.
“I know you won’t,” he crows. “You don’t have the spine. You’re weak, Margaret, you’re soft. You’re a good nurse and a passable wife, not a killer. You don’t have the instinct.”
“Is that so?” Margaret asks, cold fury underpinning each syllable.
“Oh don’t try to pull any of that independent woman bullshit with me,” he sneers. “It took three months of convalescence, a cheap ring, and one look at my bank account for you to give up everything for me, your home, your savings, your career. Don’t forget that you lived high on the hog, spending my money and using my name to get into places that never would have accepted you before. I’m the best thing that’s ever happened to you, I’m the only person alive who was willing to take you away from your miserable life and make you something more.
“Let’s face it, Margaret, you’ve been waiting for someone to rescue you your whole life, because you’re the kind of woman who can never, ever save herself. That’s why you’re going to put that gun down and come with me.” He smirks at her smugly. “Because at the end of the day, you’re mine. You were mine to marry, you were mine to keep and now you’re mine to dispose of, and no matter what you say, no matter how you try to escape me, you always will-”
The gun goes off, and Penobscott’s voice stops in his throat. You stare wide-eyed as he parts his lips in confusion, before dropping to the ground, the perfect hole in the center of his forehead smoking gently in the apartment. Margaret stands in the center of the room, the pistol clenched tight between her unshaking hands.
“Nice shot,” you breathe, staring at the newly widowed Mrs. Penobscott. You watch as steely resolve melts into panic and horror as she realizes just what she has done.
Trapper approaches Margaret like she’s an unexploded bomb. “I didn’t know you could shoot like that, Margaret,” he says cautiously.
“My father taught me,” Margaret says, her voice tight and strained. “He was a military man. A colonel in the army. He wanted me to know how to defend myself. Oh god, what have I done?”
“You haven’t done a damn thing, darling,” Trapper says, gently taking the gun out of her hands. “Isn’t that right, Hawkeye?”
“Right,” you say, kicking yourself into action and moving over to Donald’s corpse. You reach into his jacket and pants pockets, grabbing his wallet and tossing it to Trapper. Trapper rifles through it, pulling out the petty cash and pocketing it. You grab his car keys as well and stand up. “This man’s body was found mysteriously a week from now. There was no ID and no identifying marks or characteristics.”
“He was shot with an unregistered gun vaguely associated with the mob,” Trapper says. “Probably an out-of-towner who stumbled into the wrong place and pissed the wrong people off. I know just the pub.”
“Besides, you have an alibi for right now. You were either with Helen here in Boston or back in California,” you say. You level a pointed look at BJ. “Isn’t that right, BJ?”
BJ nods. “I’ll take her home with me tomorrow. We’ll touch base with Helen to get our timetables straight,” he says.
“We’ll get the body out of here tomorrow, run a full clean-up. It’s better if he disappears entirely. No body, no crime,” Trapper says.
“Trapper,” you warn in a low voice, “we’re not gonna be able to pull all of this off alone.” Trapper nods seriously.
“You mean the mob, don’t you?” Margaret asks. You and Trapper exchange expressions of vague trepidation. “Oh, don’t play dumb with me, I wasn’t born yesterday. How much will I owe them for this?” Trapper gives her a long considering look. Something like dread rolls in your stomach.
“Depends how much you want,” Trapper says, slowly, something thoughtful unfurling in his tone.
“Trap,” you warn again. Trapper’s deal with the mob had gone a little something like this too. Trapper doesn’t see that as such a bad thing, but you know better. Shake hands with them once and you never get to leave.
“It’s her decision, Hawkeye,” he says, not looking at you. “Let her make it.”
“What’s my decision?” Margaret asks, looking between you. “What do you mean whatever I want?”
“Well, if you want to beat a prison rap, that’s one thing. That’d just be some favor somewhere down the road. Now, if you want to hold onto his fortune, well, that’s another entirely,” Trapper says, his voice slow and meandering.
“His fortune?” Margaret asks, something hungry flickering to life in her eyes, displacing the wariness and shock. You wouldn’t have thought to appeal to her ambition, but you supposed Trapper knows her better than you do at this point.
“It’s yours now, isn’t it? All you have to do is keep it,” Trapper says soothingly, pulling Margaret into a loose embrace. She curls into his arms, looking up at him with wide trusting eyes. “I can help with that.”
At that exact moment, the combination of the night’s excitement, pain and exhaustion hits you all at once, and you almost pass out on your feet. You expect to become newly acquainted with Trapper’s carpet, but BJ’s arms band around your middle and haul you upright against his side.
“Shit, Hawkeye, you’re still hurt,” Trapper says, shifting towards you and stopping when Margaret doesn’t move with him. He looks conflicted for a moment, looking between you, Margaret, and the body on the floor.
“I can take him home,” BJ interjects in a cool tone. “You seem to have your hands full at the moment.” You wince a little bit, and Trapper actually flinches.
“Seriously, Trapper, I’m fine,” you say, chiming in before BJ can make another passive aggressive comment. “You’ve got a mess to deal with here, and I know how to treat a concussion.”
“You sure?” Trapper asks, looking torn. Margaret looks between the two of you with something like comprehension dawning in her eyes. You don’t want to be here at the end of that realization.
“I’m sure,” you confirm. Trapper’s face says all the things he can’t say again. You muster up a smile and say them all back. Then, BJ steers you out of the apartment-turned-crime scene, leaving Margaret behind to make a deal with the devil.
The air is warm and muggy in the parking lot, almost hard to inhale as you trudge down the stairs, adrenaline filtering out of your blood and making you weak and dizzy. You both get to the front of BJ’s rental car and sit heavily on the hood, ignoring the front axle’s noise of disapproval.
“Shit,” BJ says with great finality.
“Cosigned.” This case has been a twenty four hour shit show from start to finish. “Has it been a whole day yet?” you ask.
“Not even,” BJ answers. You tip your head onto his shoulder and he shuffles closer to you, letting you get comfortable. The parking lot is deserted in the early morning, and people in this apartment complex know better than to leave their homes when gunshots are heard. It almost feels like you and BJ are the only two people in the world, shoulder to shoulder in the dark deserted streets.
Something occurs to you. “Beej, could you recognize Penobscott’s car if you saw it?”
“I’m looking at it right now,” BJ says. “Why?”
“Well, Penobscott came straight from his penthouse intending to meet and pay Flagg after the job was done,” you say. BJ stiffens under your head.
“Which means he probably has a briefcase full of cash stashed in his ride,” BJ says, finishing your thought. “Do your lockpicking skills extend to car doors?” You smirk, grabbing Penobscott’s keys from your pocket and dangling them in front of him. You can practically hear his grin.
Maybe there’s a silver lining to this night after all
*
BJ insists on clearing your apartment before you walk in: you only let him because you’re exhausted to your very bones, even with how wired you are. It feels like you’re almost too tired to fall asleep, like any rest you could get now would end up leaving you even more wrung out.
“Hawk,” BJ says, in a tone that sounds like he may have been saying your name for a minute. You blink and re-enter reality. “Hawk, you can come in, it’s all safe, I checked everywhere.”
“Even under the sink?” you ask plaintively, stepping across your threshold, BJ’s hand warm on your elbow.
“Even under the sink,” BJ promises. He’s probably lying, but you appreciate the thought. “There are a lot of socks down there.” Scratch that, apparently he did check under the sink.
“Did you see a cat?” you ask. BJ shakes his head.
“No, Henry is still missing in action. He may have escaped out of the window when Flagg broke in.”
“Oh,” you say, devastated. “Good for her.”
“Her?”
“I named her before Radar saw her for the first time,” you explain. BJ still looks confused. “Radar knows animals.” BJ nods, even though he clearly has no idea what you’re talking about. You feel a rush of fondness for him so strong it almost makes you stumble.
The window is still open, and you make your way over to it. BJ stays close, keeping his hand near your arm to stabilize you if you falter again. You peer over the edge and look down into the dumpster below. There’s no sign of Flagg, but you didn’t really expect there to be.
“So much for never shooting to kill,” BJ says bitterly, staring through the open window. You touch the small of his back, grab his sleeve.
“Remind me to thank you for that,” you say, and he turns and stares at you for a long moment.
“I didn’t even think about it,” he says in an even contemplative tone. He touches your cheekbone with the edge of his thumb, so light you can barely feel him. “I just saw you and reacted.”
“If you thought about it, he might have reacted first,” you point out. “You saved my life, BJ. Forgive me if I don’t encourage you to regret that.”
“I don’t regret it,” BJ says immediately. “I couldn’t.”
“Then what’s the problem?” you ask, nudging your shoulder up against his. He looks out the window for a long moment before he turns back to you.
“I feel guilty that I don’t feel guilty at all,” he says, something dark and complicated flashing in his eyes. You nod. Whatever you see in his eyes fades, and soon he looks just as tired as you are. You rest your forehead on his shoulder, and he presses his nose in your hair. “Hawkeye?”
“Yeah,” you respond.
“You really reek,” BJ murmurs in your hair and you laugh so wildly and hysterically you think you can hear your sanity slipping. BJ laughs too, and you clutch at each other with shaking hands, purging yourselves of the strange tension that hangs heavy in the air.
BJ bullies you into the bathroom and sits you onto the toilet seat, grabbing the first aid kit from the cabinet and kneeling in front of you. Gently, slowly, he cleans the blood off your face, dressing your cuts and taping your nose. You wince a bit, but he soothes you with hushed words and eventually you relax entirely into his ministrations.
You haven’t been coddled like this since the months between Henry’s funeral and Trapper’s wedding, when Trapper had to pull you out of gutters and wipe off your tear-stained face, when he had to take you home every night and make promises he never intended on keeping, just to keep you alive.
BJ begins stripping you out of your clothes methodically, folding and stacking each article on the edge of the sink, nudging you when he needs you to move.
“I can’t believe Henry left,” you say miserably. BJ presses an absentminded kiss on your knee as he tugs your fishnets down your legs. His hand is big and warm on your ankle. You stare at the swoop of hair on his forehead, hypnotized by its gentle curve.
“We’ll keep the window open,” BJ says, standing up and turning the shower on, running the hot water. “Maybe Henry will come back in the night.”
You stare at him as he strips as well, revealing warm golden skin and toned muscle with every brisk motion. You let your eyes drink in his long lithe legs, his strong arms and lean torso. Your mouth waters.
“Water’s warm, come on,” BJ says, pulling you to your feet and tugging you into the tiny shower with him. Your bodies are crammed together under the spray, but BJ wraps an arm around you, securing you tight to him, and together you soap each other up. It’s less sexual than it is intimate, but you coax him into kissing you anyway, even though he is very careful around your nose. You rest your aching head on his shoulder and let him rinse you off with gentle hands, cupping water and pouring it over your back and chest like you’re being annointed.
Eventually the water starts to run cold and you have to separate from each other. BJ bundles you both up in towels, drying you off like a wet cat. It’s a warmer summer night than usual so you both crawl into bed naked, pulling as many blankets over you as you can find. He wraps you up in his arms, pressing a chaste kiss on your hairline.
“We’re not going to have sex tonight, are we?” you ask in your most resigned tone. BJ chuckles at you.
“No, we are not,” BJ agrees, maneuvering you onto his chest, his strong arms wrapping tight around you. You gingerly press your busted nose against his neck, worming one arm around his shoulder and letting the other drift down his hairy chest.
“What are your thoughts on Florida?” you ask before you can stop yourself, foolish giddy hopeless desires flooding through you. BJ tucks you even closer into his chest, as if your naked bodies flush against each other somehow aren’t enough for him. You nestle closer as well, for the same reason.
“I think Florida has better oranges than California, but worse beaches,” BJ says in a matter of fact voice. “Why, what’s in Florida?”
“Oh, nothing in particular,” you say, playing idly with his happy trail. “Just seems like a nice place to visit, don’t you think?”
“Sure,” BJ says, his tone equally perplexed and fond. “Where would we go?” You blink up at him. You didn’t think he’d put you in the fantasy too, but there you are with him, in Florida.
“Well, we could go to Miami,” you say, after a pause.
“What’s in Miami?” BJ asks.
“Miami Beach,” you say, after struggling to come up with anything better. He chuckles, and you feel the vibrations under your cheek. He gives off heat like a furnace and you feel yourself get drowsy against him.
“Okay, so we’re at Miami Beach,” BJ says. “What are we doing?”
“You’re applying my sunscreen, because I burn very easily,” you say primly.
“But I’m really feeling you up, right?” BJ asks in a lecherous voice. You think you might love him a bit for how well he plays along.
“That’s up to you,” you flirt.
“I’m definitely feeling you up,” BJ confirms, following through with a leer and a quick grope. You giggle deliriously into his chest. God, you’re tired.
“I’m ordering you a margarita the size of your head,” you offer. “Salt on the rim and everything.”
“Then you’re driving us home,” BJ says.
“Oh, we live on the beach,” you say. BJ is silent for a very long time. You would think he’s asleep, but his hand moves absently on your back, drawing little patterns with his blunt nails.
“You know, I live on the beach, in California,” BJ says, very tentatively, like he’s afraid of breaking something. You blink up at him.
“Yeah?” you ask.
“Ever since me and Peg separated, yeah,” he confirms. “I get to watch the sunset over the water. You would.” He pauses, clears his throat. “You would like it, I think.”
“I think I would too,” you say. He looks down at you, his eyes full of something unfamiliar.
“You know, you could come with us tomorrow,” BJ says. “Back to California, I mean.” You stare in stunned silence. “Spend a little time by the ocean.”
“I would,” you say after a long beat. “But there’s kind of a big mess to take care of here in Boston.”
“Right,” BJ says, his arms loosening around you. “Trapper’s apartment.”
“And Radar’s pay,” you point out. “And the gunfight at Rosie’s.” His arms gradually tighten around you again.
“I get it. You have a life here to take care of,” BJ says, his voice only a little bitter. You press a kiss against the underside of his jaw. “And I guess I wouldn’t fit in around here, would I?” BJ prompts when you don’t extend the offer yourself.
“I’d prefer you in Florida, personally,” you say.
“What is it about Florida with you?” BJ asks. You swallow heavily, running your fingers through his chest hair.
“Henry loved Florida,” you say eventually. “Always wanted to retire there.”
“Henry the cat?” BJ asks incredulously. You roll your eyes.
“Henry Blake, as in Blake & Pierce. He was my mentor. He took me under his wing and taught me everything I know about being a PI. He’s the one who introduced me to Trapper actually -- he and Klinger used to go steady for a little bit. We took Radar in from Father Mulcahy’s shelter and we built a little family here in Boston.”
“Well, a few years passed and Henry got tired of the game. He was getting older, his wife and kids missed him and he had saved up enough over the years to retire with them. The week he was supposed to turn in his magnifying glass, the police commissioner’s wife drove home drunk after a gala event and hit a pedestrian. Her family asked me to prove it, but the cops were on her side and nobody was willing to cross the commissioner. Henry kept telling me to let it go, but I just couldn’t, so he stuck around an extra few days to help me build a case.”
“The night Henry finally left to go live his happily ever after with his beautiful wife and young children, someone gunned down the driver’s seat of his car next to the police precinct. His case was assigned to a new detective and archived within a week. The culprit was never found.” To this day, you still suspect the commissioner for orchestrating his death. You would shout that from the rooftops, but Henry’s death taught you not to make those kinds of accusations quite so loudly. For all that you can mess with individual men like Frank Burns, the police force and its leadership are not so forgiving. “If Henry had just left Boston when he was supposed to, he would still be alive today.”
“It wasn’t your fault, Hawkeye,” he says.
“It doesn’t matter whose fault it is. What matters is this life chews people up. This was supposed to be your last case for a reason.” Something occurs to you. “Look, Penobscott promised you five thousand dollars, right? That’s how much is in the briefcase. I want you to take it, and I want you to use it to get out of the game. Move your whole family out to Florida, make sandwiches for a living, kiss your kid, live to see her graduate.”
“People die in Florida too, Hawk,” BJ reminds you gently.
“Not because of me, they don’t.”
“Maybe Henry thought you were worth it,” BJ argues, looking at you with big sincere eyes.
You think about BJ’s chewed up wallet. “That’s cold comfort to his family.”
“And what will you do while I make sandwiches in Miami? Die young in Boston?” BJ asks, pushing a lock of your hair back behind your ear.
“You don’t have to worry about me,” you say, with false bravado. “I’m like a cat, I was born with nine lives.”
“How many do you have left?” he murmurs.
“At least one.”
BJ stares at you for a long time. Your eyelids feel heavy.
“I don’t want to say goodbye,” BJ says. “I don’t want to leave you.”
“You’ve only known me for a day,” you remind him.
“I knew you the second I saw you.” BJ counters. “I’ve known you my whole life.”
He’s right. That strange feeling you get when you see him, the odd familiarity in your conversation, your natural rapport — it’s all recognition. You know him like you know your heartbeat under your ribs.
“Then we’ll see each other in our next one,” you offer, dropping a kiss on his jaw, and then another on his collarbone. “You’ll spot me from across the crowded bar, and you’ll make your way over to me.”
“You’ll ask to buy me a drink,” BJ builds on the fantasy. You rest your head more fully on his chest.
“I’ll ask you to go behind the club with me,” you correct. BJ laughs, a warm rumble against your cheek.
“I’ll say yes, next life.”
“Next life,” you confirm, nosing into his chest hair a bit more. BJ presses his lips against the top of your head, and you fall asleep like that, soothed by the sound of air rushing to fill BJ’s lungs, the steady thump of his heart.
*
When you wake up the next morning, BJ is gone and so is the briefcase. Your fishnets are hanging on the makeshift clothesline in your bathroom, the rest of your clothes piled neatly in a box that’s been functioning as a hamper and Henry’s daytime napping corner. The window is wide open, and Henry is sitting on the sill, her tail waving back and forth against your nose.
“You came back,” you say in surprised delight, offering your fingertips to sniff. “BJ said you might.” She nuzzles against your hand and leaps to press her cold nose against your cheek. You light a cigarette from the pack on your nightstand and blow smoke out the window, staring at the diner down the street.
“He invited me to California, Henry,” you say. Henry meows at you, and you scratch the very top of her head between her ears. “Yeah, I know he’s married, but still.”
Life goes on. Rosie bills you for the damages to the hotel room and you cough up out of your last case’s payoff. Margaret sends you a check in the mail that goes straight to Lorraine upstate. You take a case and end a marriage in less than a day, a new record for you. Radar refuses to assign you any potentially dangerous cases thanks to your concussion, but he gives you a little allowance and lets you bother him in the office while he works, and that’s enough to keep you occupied.
In addition to spending more time with you in the office, Radar helps you patch up the gunshot holes in your apartment, crashing on your sofa for a few days. You initially think he’s worried for his own safety thanks to Flagg’s threats, but the fourth time he wakes up in the middle of the night holding a bat because you got up to use the bathroom, you realize he has appointed himself your guard dog.
“You know, if living at the office is getting rough on you, you can always move in with me,” you offer on the fifth day of his vigil. Radar clears his throat.
“Thank you, sir. I appreciate that, but the office has better heating and water pressure,” he says, letting you down gently.
“At least use the shower at my place, Radar, that bathroom isn’t equipped for a grown man,” you say, considering his hygiene, or lack thereof.
“I might take you up on that, sir,” Radar responds cheerfully. “At least one of us would be using it then.” After that, you drop it.
You feel your mind turn to BJ more often than not, reliving the stolen moments you shared, imagining his bright sweet smile, his surprising wit, the way he kissed your knee and took care of you. You wonder if he’s with his wife now, if he’s moved from California, if he’s reading to his daughter and kissing her forehead. You wonder if he ever thinks of you.
Trapper stops by at the office after about a fortnight of radio silence, while you’re wrapping up a pro bono case for Ginger, leaning on the door jamb of the main office and watching the two of you talk.
“If he gives you any more trouble, just call me, okay? No charge,” you say, ignoring Trapper for the moment. Ginger nods and smiles.
“Thanks, Hawkeye,” she says, leaning in and pressing a kiss against your cheek. “Don’t worry. If he shows up again, I’ll just beat him to death with that baton you bought me.”
“Well, that works too,” you smile at her. She turns and lights up when she sees Trapper.
“Trapper!” she greets him, delighted. “Where have you been? I haven’t seen you in the club for ages.”
“Hey, Ginger,” Trapper says, greeting her with a lingering embrace. “Work’s been busy, you know how it is.”
“Don’t be a stranger,” she says, kissing him on the cheek as well. “We’ve all missed you.”
“When you say ‘we all’, do you really mean ‘I’? ‘Cause I’ve missed you all too.”
“Trapper,” Radar says, entering the room with a glare. Radar’s eyes flick between him and Ginger quickly. “How’s the wife?” he asks pointedly.
Trapper winces and Ginger smiles ruefully back at Radar.
“I’ll see you around, Trapper,” Ginger says, before exiting gracefully. Trapper glares at Radar, who smiles smugly and moves to the coffee pot. Radar never forgave Trapper for getting married, protective of you to a fault. It’s a shame, considering how close they used to be, but you have every faith that Trapper will win him back again. It’s hard to stay mad at Trapper: he’s got a face you want to smile at.
“Hey, Hawkeye,” Trapper says, pulling you into a quick kiss. Radar slaps the pot of coffee down on the desk and moves back into the small side room where he spends most of his nights. You feel his disapproval at your back and smirk. “Can we talk?”
“Step into my office,” you say, ushering him in and then closing the door behind you.
“Have you been resting the moneymaker?” he asks, smiling at you.
“When have you known me not to emote?” you retort and he nods amiably. “What’s the news on Margaret? You’ve been hard to reach.”
“Well, I’ve been in discussions with some of the older guys,” Trapper says, meaning the mob leadership. “Margaret’s whole, you know, situation kinda presents a couple of challenges we had to sort out.”
“Oh yeah,” you ask. “And what did you sort out?”
“Well, for starters, Flagg isn’t dead,” Trapper says. You blink in shock.
“What the hell do you mean he isn’t dead?”
“Klinger never found a body, and he hasn’t shown up in any morgue or river,” Trapper reports. “You know Flagg’s survived bullets before.”
“Wait, so you’ve been letting us work here while Flagg is still on the loose? Didn't I tell you he threatened Radar?” you ask furiously.
“Calm down, you know I would never put you or Radar in danger,” Trapper reassures you. “I negotiated your protection from Flagg before anything else.”
“I thought you said the mob couldn’t get involved with Flagg, not while tensions were high with the cops.”
“You’re right, we couldn’t,” Trapper says, walking to your desk and sitting heavy on the edge. “I had to convince them that it was worth their while to not just let Flagg finish the job and let Margaret take the rap.”
“Let me guess, you promised them access to the Penobscott fortune,” you say. Trapper nods. “How are they gonna get their hands on Margaret’s money when she lives in California?”
“She’s actually moving to Boston. Nobody can directly tie her to Penobscott’s disappearance, but his family still suspect her, and they didn’t really like her before she took all his money. They practically ran her out of town. She’s gonna stay with Helen for a little until we can sort out all of the logistics.”
“This all sounds fairly successful and painless,” you offer. Trapper nods. “What’s the catch?”
“Well, you know, money aside, the family thinks she could be a real asset to us, the way Klinger was, you know?”
“Of course,” you say. “She’s a good nurse and a better shot.”
“Right, exactly,” Trapper says. “Only, it’s harder to ensure Margaret’s loyalty than it was with Klinger. Klinger chose us because we were willing to protect him from the world, but Margaret has more options than he ever did.”
“So what, you’re blackmailing her?” you ask. Trapper looks at his feet.
“Well, blackmail being as distasteful as it is, the family was considering something a little more legally binding. Something that would give them more direct access to the money.” You try to catch his eyes but he avoids your gaze.
“What are you saying, Trap?” you ask, something sick and fearful unfurling in your stomach.
“Well, you know,” Trapper starts, wincing and fiddling with some of the papers on your desk. “The scene at the apartment incriminated me too, you know. It was my gun, on my property. There’s a case to be made against me just as much as Margaret. And well, you know, since I already haven’t really been living with Louise for the past couple of years, and there’s sort of a well-documented pattern of marital infidelity, the family decided that. Well, they thought that-“
“You’re marrying her, aren’t you?” you ask, feeling briefly like you have been hit by a train, or dropped out of a plane, like breath and life have been knocked out of you entirely. “You’re leaving Louise and marrying Margaret.”
“Just in the legal sense,” Trapper hedges. You feel like you’re watching yourself behind your shoulder, watching yourself nod and smile like a lunatic. Married. Trapper’s getting married again. “I’ll still be paying for Louise and the kids, but now it’ll be with this Penobscott’s money. The family decided that the fortune was too good to pass up on, even with the whole, you know, divorce thing.”
“I wonder what Father Mulcahy said,” you ask, feeling faint. You wonder if he’ll reuse the sermon from Trapper’s first wedding. From when he got married the first time. Married. Again.
“He’s not pleased with anyone, but he knows this’ll be good for the orphans in the long run.” You nod, blinking for a few long seconds. Married. Again. Trapper is leaving the wife he said he wasn’t ever going to leave and getting married. Again.
“Well, mazel tov,” you say in a bright strained voice. “I’m sure you two will be very happy together. Margaret’s a beautiful woman.”
“Come on, Hawk, it’s not like that,” Trapper pleads. “It’s a business deal.”
“Margaret’s hickeys seemed to beg otherwise,” you say, before you can stop yourself. Trapper winces a bit and you feel immediately guilty. “I mean it, you’ll probably get along great.”
“You’re not listening to me, Hawkeye. It’s a family thing-” he starts.
“I get it,” you say, turning and fiddling with some of the papers on your desk. “You don’t have to explain yourself, it’s your life. You don’t owe me anything.”
“Nothing’s changed, really,” Trapper says, coming up behind you. “Not between you and me.”
“Margaret’s not going to enjoy me dropping in every so often to ‘catch up’,” you point out.
“Louise didn’t like it either, but I never let that stop me,” he counters. He puts a hand on your waist, presses his lips against your neck. You turn slightly into his arms, let him work up your jaw to your lips. “Come on, Hawkeye, don’t be mad. It doesn’t have to be a big deal, not for us.”
You could let him soothe away this sting, given another ten minutes of this. It’s not like he’ll be any more married then than he is now. The mob made him get married the first time too. It’s not personal. It’s never been personal. This has nothing to do with you. Trapper’s lips hover over yours.
“Hawkeye, delivery for you,” Radar calls from the main room. You step quickly out of the circle of Trapper’s arms and open the door.
“What is it, Radar?” you ask, looking at what you can see of Radar behind the massive crate he’s holding.
“I don’t know, sir, did you order something?” he asks, dropping it on his desk. You pry it open and peer into its contents. A smile splits across your face like sunshine on a cloudy day, like laughter in a silent room. Inside the crate, packed to the very top, are at least forty ripe oranges.
“Who would send you an entire crate full of oranges out of nowhere?” Trapper asks, peering over your shoulder.
The oranges are bright and unblemished, perfectly spherical and forming little pyramids where they stack together. Your mouth waters just looking at them. You pluck one off the top and dig your thumb into the rind, sinking into the memory of your interrupted tryst at Rosie’s. The sharp smell of citrus perfumes the air, cutting through the tobacco-saturated haze.
“Look, there’s a note,” Radar says. You snatch it out of his hands before the last word is out of his mouth, leaving a smudge of juice on the pristine white paper. The note is scrawled in black pen on blank cardstock, the handwriting slanted but purposeful.
UNTIL OUR NEXT LIFE
“Who’s it from?” Trapper asks again, still looking over your shoulder. You look back into the crate of oranges again, still not quite believing your eyes.
“Trouble,” you answer eventually, running your fingers over the indents in the cardstock, feeling it out like Braille. Something warm and bittersweet fills your chest, like fresh brewed coffee with sugar.
Until your next life indeed.