Chapter Text
Luck has never been on Hawkeye's side. She'd begged, wheedled, pleaded, even temporarily put aside her beliefs and prayed: still, nothing. Worse than nothing: when the time to hand out weekend passes came, it was BJ who got one, and BJ who got to go to Tokyo alone. BJ, who is probably sitting in some bar right about now, Hawkeye thinks, drinking the nice sorts of drinks they get in real cities instead of mobile campgrounds—going to bed in a real bed—walking through real streets, patronizing real shops, talking to real people.
Sighing, Hawkeye rolls over on her cot. Flips again. Shifts, hangs her torso off the edge of her mattress, legs propped up against a crossbeam on the canvas wall, hair brushing the floor. Hums. The problem with her and BJ's admittedly fortuitous living situation, she thinks, is that when BJ is gone, their two-person tent is fucking lonely.
And at—Hawkeye tucks, does a backwards roll, and scrambles to grab her watch from it's resting spot on the floor—quarter past three, alone in her tent, there are very few interesting ways to pass the time alone.
Antsy, she gets up, paces a lap in the small space. Their living space is not as tidy as Major Burns would like it to be; most of the time, Hawkeye would tell Major Burns, even just in the comfort of her own mind, to shove it, but the dirty floor makes for bad pacing—she has to weave, dodge, can't really let her mind wander without tripping as a consequence. Burns is an idiot, but in this, she's at least a little right.
So Hawkeye groans, flops onto BJ's cot instead. Shoves her face against the worn fabric of BJ's pillow. It still smells like her: sweat and musk and floral shampoo.
A pang of arousal settles low in Hawkeye's stomach.
She debates if she should return to her own bed. It isn't as if she hasn't done anything sexual in BJ's before—not like BJ hasn't done the same in hers. In the several weeks since BJ first kissed her they've done all manner of things: sitting across from each other on their separate mattresses with hands below blankets, kneeling in front of their shared desk against the back wall—so it wouldn't be totally frowned upon, maybe, even if BJ herself isn't here.
There's a sheen over their liaisons, admittedly—a sense, at least from BJ's side, that it's only mutual relief, mutual fun. A step up from masturbation. Slipping beneath BJ's bedclothes, sliding her pajama bottoms and underwear down her legs, pressing her nose further into the lingering scent of BJ left behind on a pillowcase—maybe a step beyond. But Hawkeye is restless. She does it anyway.
She's already wet just from the anticipation, the knowledge of what she's about to do. She rubs her clit first, quick and steady strokes, groaning into BJ's pillow. Thinks about what BJ would do if she were here. BJ's long, elegant fingers, deceptively strong, too deft for their own good, buried inside her—fuck, but can she play Hawkeye like a piano. Hawkeye wonders idly if her fingers, stretched wide, could span an octave. For a brief moment she pictures BJ bending her over the back of a baby grand, reaching between the thigh-slit of Hawkeye's evening gown to dip those fingers inside, dressed in a three-piece suit with only the right sleeve rolled up, her tie across Hawkeye's shoulder, Hawk herself gripping the end of it to keep BJ just where she is. Or maybe BJ knelt between her thighs as Hawkeye struggles to keep playing, tripping over the elementary-level songs she barely remembers how to play. Whining, Hawkeye shifts, lifting her ass in the air, and curls her own fingers inside herself.
She wonders if BJ is doing this, too, in the comfort of her hotel room. Pictures BJ taking advantage of the warm water and the private shower to jerk herself off. Or maybe leaned back against fluffy hotel pillows, her hair free, head tipped back and mouth open in pleasure. BJ is so calculated about it, sometimes, when she gets herself off—straight to the point. Maybe she's more expressive in private. What things does she not let even Hawkeye see? Does she keep them from her husband, too?
Hawkeye sighs, shakes her head to clear it, putting thoughts of BJ's husband out of her mind.
Instead, she pictures a dim room in an empty hotel, herself propped between BJ's legs, total freedom for BJ to whine and cry and shout and beg for Hawkeye to do more, more, faster, her voice wanton and breaking over every other syllable, legs locked across Hawkeye's shoulders, hips bucking against Hawkeye's face, fingers tugging impatiently on Hawkeye's hair until she comes, soaking Hawkeye from nose to collarbone, and then begging to go again—again, again, again. Hawkeye curls her fingers and comes to the thought of BJ wanting her, really wanting her, and letting her know it.
She sleeps in BJ's cot. BJ won't be back until tomorrow, anyhow.