Title: View From The Outside
Author: Lisa M
Pairing: BJ/Hawkeye
Rating: Sergeant (PG)
Disclaimer: Nope, don't own anything. Don't sue … no money.
Archive: Anywhere, just let me know.
Feedback: Would be appreciated - good or bad.
Spoilers: None.
Summary: Charles POV - Charles sees things about BJ and Hawkeye that others don't.

They think I don't know about them. That I am blind to their relationship. And while no one else in this God-forsaken place seems to have the slightest notion of its depth, I do.

I find it astounding that, when they recently added a lock on the inside of the door to our domicile - no one questioned the reasons. When one man stopped writing to his wife daily and the other called a cease and desist on his chasing of female personnel - there were no suspicions cast upon them. Then again, I have not given any indication that I am fully aware of their relationship either.

One could wonder how I know. They act no differently around me than they do around the others in camp. But, when I witness their small touches in passing, or their close proximity while sitting in the mess tent or lounging in the Swamp, their near-constant contact with each other, I do not see friends.

I see lovers. I hear lovers.

Late into the night, when they think I am asleep, their echoes reach my ears. Wooden creaks as one miniscule cot protests against the weight of two grown men. Soft rustling of clothes as they are discarded and float to the floor. Deep, breathy exhales, preceded by sharp, shallow intakes of life-sustaining air. Whispered words of passion and adoration. Long moments of silence, followed by names sighed into the darkness.

I should be outraged. I should be disgusted.

I am not.

I am, in fact, the exact opposite. The jealousy I feel is sometimes overwhelming. In a place of blood and pain, they have found each other. I wish I was privy to that feeling. To know that there is someone who will hold me when I am hurting. To ease my pain. To make me feel alive. To know that I am indeed loved.

And yet, because of my burning envy, I have become strangely protective of them. If someone were to ask me about the situation, I would deny any knowledge. I cannot even imagine being the one who would disrupt or destroy the quiet balance they have brought to each other. It is neither of their faults that I am alone. That I am unhappy.

It is mine.

And, contrary to public belief, the three of us have become relatively close. They have been here for me during my trying times and have helped me through many difficult situations. There have been those rare moments in which despair has almost taken control of me. And in those times of need, they have always reached out to me. A pat on the shoulder. An arm slung around the neck. Perhaps even an embrace.

However, I am very aware that these are the gestures of friends. They are not the lingering caresses on the small of the back, nor the feathering of fingertips across the hand they give to one another when passing each other in camp.

Those aren't quite the same thing, are they? No. There is a cavernous difference between the two.

I want to feel what they feel. To know the sense of peace, of comfort, of pure honesty that only love can command. To posses the light that shimmers in their eyes when one speaks the other's name - and that dims when they part company.

Opportunities have presented themselves to me. Glimpses of what could be. Women who have attempted to open themselves up to me. Who were willing to love me. And I have turned away each and every time. Fear of repercussions from my family? Fear of emotional intimacy? Of the unknown?

Perhaps.

All are excuses for not allowing myself to feel. Excuses that have left me filled with regret.

They do not seem to have regret. Each time they touch, each time they embrace, the risk before them is enormous. In both their personal and professional lives. But within the warmth of their desire for each other - the strength of their love - there are no boundaries. No guilt. No uncertainty.

I can only hope to someday be a part of something that special. To be that generous with all of me. To live and love without fear. I will be fortunate to find it. If, by some God-sent miracle, I do eventually stumble upon it, I will remember BJ Hunnicutt and Hawkeye Pierce. And I will try, with the whole of my being, to follow the example they have set for me.

The End