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“Him?” Trapper has to take a second to pick his jaw up off the floor. “But, Hawk— I mean, ’sides the fact that you got plenty of nurses and a couple of doctors linin’ up to have a go at ya without needin’ the least bit of seducin’, why the hell do you wanna go for the one guy, the one person in this whole camp who took a vow of celibacy? Hell, married folks still have a good chance of screwin’ around, even if the odds ain’t always good and you got your hangups about it. These odds are rigged.”
Hawkeye gives him a well duh look. “Maybe I like the chase.”
“That ain’t a chase. It’s a dead-end. It’s that bit in Looney Tunes with the tunnel painted onto a wall. You’re that dumbass coyote about to break your neck on it.”
“All I’m hearing is that if I can do him, I can do anything.”
“Swear to God, Hawk, you know I’m always down with your schemes, and I co-write half of ’em myself… But you are not ropin’ me into this.”
“What? Why? This could be your finest hour of wingmanning! This is a task fit for Red Baron-level wingmen!”
“Hindenburg-level, more like!”
“You want me to get out there all by my lonesome and screw up my chance to screw?”
“Yeah, kinda, if it’ll knock ya down a peg. I don’t want any part of this if it goes bad— and it’s gonna go bad.”
“Oh, what do you know?”
“I know that we’re talkin’ about a Catholic priest, and that’s two strikes right outta the gate. And I mean, look at him. He looks like if you whipped it out in front of him, he’d burst into tears.”
“Tears of joy!”
“Doubt it.”
“He and I are always flirting.”
“You’re always flirtin’ with everyone. Half the unit flirts back just to have somethin’ to do. I think even Frank accidentally plays along with it when he’s not paying attention.”
“Because I’m damn near irresistible. I’m like a magnet. Even better than one, because magnets will shove each other away with the wrong end— I’m attractive at both ends, and on my back or on my stomach! I’ll just lay it on a little thicker in the next couple days and see where things go from there.”
“Laying it on thick by your standards could smother somebody. You remember how fast he bolted out of that V.D. talk the other week? Those drawings didn’t even have any goodies, and he turned white as a sheet and went spectral.”
“I like to think I’m a much more enticing temptation than both figures A and B put together.”
“Yeah? Well, I ‘figure’ you’re gonna ‘B’ a total ‘A’-hole to Mulcahy. Just promise me you’ll drop it the second he starts saying ‘no’, instead of double- and triple-checking until he gets fed up and knocks you out with that left hook.”
Hawkeye shrugs. “Either he knocks me out or knocks me up. I like those odds.”
Trapper points to the door, trying to give his best stern-parent scowl despite desperately wanting to laugh.
Hawkeye holds off on making his first move until dinner the next day, when a lucky lull in actual work to do means the mess hall is loud and densely-populated. It’s one of those evenings where the ambient chatter seems enthusiastic enough to make you think it’s a real restaurant serving real food, as opposed to a glorified pig trough. Hell, even pigs will haul ass to eat out of a trough. Actually eating in the mess hall feels like a painful price of admission to the real attraction of shooting the breeze without having an anaesthetized body between you and your conversation partner.
When Hawkeye beckons the Father over, Mulcahy perks up in a manner not unlike a mouse standing up on its hind legs, and he might nearly knock something off his tray with how quickly he rushes over if it isn’t for the fact that the food seems to resemble some sort of encrusting slime mold or lichen today. He sets it down with a loud clack. “Wonderful evening to you, Hawkeye!” He beams with the innocence of someone who hasn’t taken their first bite yet this meal and is still holding out hope. “Is something the matter?”
“What? No, no, nothing’s wrong. Nothing new, at least.” Hawkeye squints over the edge of his tin cup, taking a strategic sip to hide how big he’s smiling at Mulcahy’s eagerness. “Slow day at confession? Still need that gossip fix?”
“Oh, you’re terrible. Yes, it was slow— it’s always slow. Not one visitor at all today. But you know I don’t gossip!”
“Okay, maybe gossip was a strong word. But you can’t tell me you aren’t a little curious about what everyone else around here gets up to. It’s a good spectator sport.”
“Ah… Perhaps just a small amount. I believe that’s a natural consequence of being made an involuntary hermit.”
“You really don’t get much socializing done outside of your scrubs, do you?”
“Not as much as I’d like. I don’t think I’m on the A-list of invitees for the really interesting functions. A lot of the events around here feel like…”
“Key parties?”
“I was going to phrase it a little more delicately, but yes. Even during movie nights—”
“What? You actually go to the movie nights?” And here he thought Radar was the only odd-one-out at those, and not for lack of trying on his part.
“Hawkeye, I’ve been to the last five!”
“Forgive me for my tunnel-vision, Father. Lot of the nurses here have big hair. Hard to see around my dates when we’re… sharing popcorn.”
“You don’t have to tell me. I’ve seen you.”
Hawkeye goes red as his bathrobe. Even though the whole rest of the makeshift theater had obviously seen him every time, somehow knowing Mulcahy was also a witness— and totally unoccupied, unlike everyone else — feels far dirtier. Did he just see, or did he actually watch…?
Mulcahy has a small smile, but the glint in his eyes makes it clear he’s holding back a real grin. “Really, I’m not going to gasp and clutch my crucifix at the slightest debauchery; otherwise I’d have already keeled over at this point, given what goes on in this camp on a daily basis. I wish more people would realize that.”
“And invite you places.”
“And invite me places! Or at least visit…”
“Okay, spare me the professional Catholic guilt trip.” Hawkeye leans in a little closer. “Want me to bring you along as my plus-one to the next movie night? I promise I’ll keep my mouth completely nurse-free so you’ll actually have someone to talk to instead of just staring straight ahead.”
“That sounds like a nicer movie night than the last few. What’s playing, do you know?”
“No clue.”
“Oh. Well, I can’t promise I’ll be interested, but it’s not you, Hawkeye— I just don’t want to agree to see it if it ends up being something with a lot of gore…” Mulcahy swallows, but there’s something in his face that isn’t quite the same thing as his usual please-God-don’t-elaborate look. “Or scantily-clad women.”
“Aw, c’mon, half the fun is hating on whatever’s on the screen with whoever’s sitting next to you. And, y’know, enjoying a little company…”
Mulcahy leers at him, his head angled slightly away, his worried brow and pressed-tight mouth betraying something, but it’s not clear what. It’s probably along the lines of if you keep pressing this, I’m going to puke, which is unfortunately a pretty familiar look. “I’ll think about it, Hawkeye.”
“Any other exciting evening plans coming up?” There’s a sarcastic lilt to his voice as a nod to how useless it is to bother making plans in this place. Half the time you need to cancel because you’re elbow deep in viscera, and the other half you need to cancel because you’re running on fumes and can’t discern shades of red anymore. The longer this wears on, the more tempting it is to take any offers of ‘sleeping together’ completely literally. “You must have something you do for fun besides lurking in the set-dressing and wringing your hands.”
“When I have time to myself, I’m fairly grateful to just sit down and turn my mind off for a little while. I do a lot of reading. I’ve enjoyed dropping into your card games, but I’m a little nervous about what it might do to the image I try to cultivate if I become a regular there. And after that time I got dogpiled by nearly a dozen men, I was a little put-off from playing any more football…”
“You box, don’t you?”
“Only versus a punching bag these days. Hardly anyone else has that kind of energy to keep up with my training in the off-hours because I’m the only one who isn’t… doing anything useful in the O.R..”
“Don’t open that book back up, Father. I told you once, I told you a thousand times: you’re beautiful in there. I wouldn’t be sitting here hassling you about dragging you places if I though you were some freeloading barnacle mooching off my precious oxygen— like Frank.”
“I suppose I’m just trained to consider it an act of charity.”
“I told you, cut that out; my mascara isn’t waterproof. C’mon, we could walk down to the river in the morning before it gets too hot. Go for a swim. Do you have one of those one-piece bathing suits in all-black? Does it have a turtleneck instead of a crewneck? I can’t picture you in trunks, as much as I try to.”
Mulcahy tilts his head like a cat seeing a bug start to move.
Hawkeye continues coolly. “We could pretend to be productive. We just got a bunch of random bits of surplus dumped here an hour ago, and the clerk who packed it up and shipped it had obviously lost both eyes and one of his hands, judging by the job he did. You and me could go down to the supply tent and… sort some of it out.”
Mulcahy makes a show of rolling his head this way and that to turn the thoughts over in his mind while he picks at his mystery-meat stroganoff. His expression is still strange. Not quite opaque— more like stained glass. He’s got a coy little smile, but he always has that, and he’s very well-trained in keeping it up regardless of whatever’s going on behind his eyes.
Hawkeye tries to hide his nerves by taking a long drink from his tin cup. “If you want more options, go tell Henry to approve my request for a carousel. I want a real Dentzel one, with a bright blue hippocampus—”
“The river might be fun.”
“Mm? You like having a scenic view, huh?”
“And I like going for long walks.” Mulcahy hesitates, but then his smile returns stronger. “Very long. Some have complained about my stamina.”
“Trust me… I can keep up. I know a hiking route that’ll really wear you out.” Hawkeye smirks.
“Pierce!” The jab of Frank’s voice from a few yards away jolts everyone in earshot out of their conversations with a collective groan and clutch of the head. “What are you doing?”
“What does it look like I’m doing?” Hawkeye leans back and feigns innocence with a doe-eyed pout. “I’m simply making arrangements to visit our beloved chaplain one-on-one.”
Mulcahy averts his eyes but otherwise betrays nothing in his posture.
“I thought you said I could use a little churching-up, Frank. Why all the fuss?”
Frank’s eyes flash between his roommate and the chaplain. “I, uh, um, well. To me, it just sounded like you were—”
“Oh, not in front of Hot Lips. Get your head out of the gutter.”
Houlihan, standing alert at Frank’s side, stamps her boot once. She can’t take offense to the remark itself without coming off as a voyeur, though, so she keeps her mouth pursed tight and her jaw held tense.
Frank bows a little in apology, but then straights again after a second or two of thought. “Hey, wait a minute! How did you know I was going there if you weren’t already there?”
“Really, Frank, you’re more predictable than 5-o’-clock Charlie. Do you want to burn this bridge between myself and the Father?”
Frank pulls a face like a bulldog smelling something sour and turns tail, ducking into a separate table and sitting facing away. Houlihan marches after him and has her hand on his upper back before she’s even fully seated.
Hawkeye watches them for a moment to make sure he’s successfully shooed them away before diverting his attention back to Mulcahy, who’s been eating at a good clip in rigid silence since Frank’s outburst. Hawkeye is barely audible above the chatter around them. “Classic case of jealousy. He’s mad I got the cuter blonde.”
“Don’t let him discourage you.” It’s so diplomatic, but despite Mulcahy’s plain smile, the sensation of his boot bumping against Hawkeye’s under the table is unmistakably brazen. “I enjoy visiting with you. Where were we…?”
Hawkeye feels his pulse creep up into his throat. Right as something audacious is about to leap out of his mouth, he catches Radar bolting upright at a seat near the door, and he doesn’t need any ESP to predict what word is about to leave the kid’s mouth.
Barring any sudden acts of Ares, it feels as though none of the soldiers from the most recent batch are going to need their last rites read to them, or at least not today. Six in total were brought in tonight, and number five is laid out in front of Hawkeye. No one’s gone into cardiac arrest; no one’s needed transfusions of an out-of-stock blood type. Maybe this little morsel of what passes for relief is working its magic— either that, or it’s the anticipation of getting the hell out of here once this one is closed up, or both, or some mysterious fourth option.
But something must be possessing the O.R. personnel, because when Mulcahy squeezes past from side of the room to the other just to get the blinding overhead lamps to roast him at a different angle, he drags his hand indulgently across Hawkeye’s back, distinctly feeling vertebrae T11 to L3 through the threadbare scrubs in one slow, steady brush.
Hawkeye is no stranger to a little physical examination in mixed company, but he freezes for a solid second at the contact— because he knows whoever just did that is no longer sterile, and an instantaneous rush of irritation hits faster than his conscious mind can really register. His eyes dart to his side, and when he sees that the culprit is the one person in the room not wearing latex gloves, the anger evaporates in a flash… but the subsequent stomach-drop takes another two seconds off the clock as he recalibrates, hands frozen in place over the open abdomen in front of him. He feels like he just dropped a stack of books directly onto his own feet.
Houlihan nudges his bloodied wrist with the back of hers. “Suture.” The tweezers in her hand glint in the lamplight.
Oh, right. He’d forgotten he’d asked for that. He graciously accepts her offering and sets back to work, the muscle-memory to-do list snapping back into focus. The instant this stitch is tied off, he steals another pointed glance at Mulcahy. He’s always prided himself on his ability to communicate with only his eyes, but it’s a little difficult to get the bizarre mix of do that again, but not here, but that was hot, but not if we get yelled at again all across in one short, subtle moment.
Mulcahy’s smiling eyes are obvious even through his mask and the glare of his glasses, and Hawkeye now places that mysterious edge in his expression from earlier as mischief.
Houlihan catches the pause again, and glances up just in time to see Hawkeye give the Father an eyebrow waggle and a wink. “Pierce! Unbelievable!”
“What, what is it? Did I stitch the wrong intestine?”
“You winked at the wrong target. I do not condone any lascivious behavior on the clock, but certainly not any towards a priest. ”
“Lascivious? You wound me, Hot Lips. I would much rather call myself lusty; perhaps, on occasion leering, but—”
“Quit being coy, Pierce.” That remark came from Frank, two patients over. “We’re not blind to your… Your sick pursuit of off-limits individuals!”
“Right.” Hawkeye exaggerates a nod. “Vows are very important, whether they’re for celibacy or marriage, and they should not be trivialized.”
Houlihan leans forward over her patient just to try and stare Hawkeye in the face. “You’d better quit pestering Father Mulcahy, especially while we’re in here.”
“The only one who’s being pestered is yours truly! He was coming onto me; all I did was try to be polite and show my appreciation for the generous donation of his hand to my backside.”
“You expect me to believe that? You really are beneath contempt, Pierce.”
Mulcahy raises his hand in Houlihan’s periphery. “Ah, Major, if I could add—”
Frank interrupts with a chiding ah-ah-ah. “Father, your selflessness is truly Christ-like, but you should not stick your neck out just to cover for this promiscuous low-life.”
“I’m not covering for him, I—”
Houlihan drops a bloodstained clamp on the equipment tray hard enough to rattle it. “I can’t stand to work with such an incorrigible sleaze, let alone listen to the only sane man in the camp—” Frank startles, hurt, at her turn of phrase— “irrationally throw himself under the bus to try and save Pierce’s already rock-bottom reputation.”
That last remark finally kicks Henry Blake into stepping in, albeit it’s a little late to mediate. “For crying out loud, can we all just finish this up and leave?”
Hawkeye steals one last look at Mulcahy before he resolves to keep his head down and focus on getting the patient ready to close up. The Father looks deeply, miserably apologetic, but Hawkeye gives him the biggest grin he can to make sure it shows through his white mask.
Hawkeye mumbles something as quickly and softly as he can about discussing this later to Mulcahy as they depart the O.R. to crash in their respective tents in the middle of the night. With no further comment, the Father nods, and as he walks past to leave, Hawkeye definitely feels that same soothing hand ghost across his back.
Scheduling conflicts and surgical complications keep them separated through most of the next day— every Sunday, Hawkeye wonders where the hell Mulcahy is at random points before he remembers a little something called a “calendar,” an old-world artifact which apparently still means something to some of the people here. When he sees Mulcahy, it’s only in passing while running from one crisis to the next.
Monday morning, Klinger rushes to sit with Hawkeye at breakfast before anyone else can. How he never drops a single hair from that mink stole into any of this de-flavorized slop is a mystery. “Hey, Hawk.” His tone is polite yet firm. “Word of advice: give it up. If it ain’t workin’ for me, it sure as hell ain’t gonna work for you.”
“…Is this about Mulcahy?”
“No, it’s about that coffee stain you can’t quite get out of your robe. Yes, it’s about Mulcahy!”
“You don’t think he’s into me?”
“Think? I know he isn’t! He’s a priest! Or did you figure he wears that turtleneck and cross just to be fashionable? I mean, I’ve always thought it was a dashing look, but—” Klinger shakes his head, jingling his elaborate gold earrings like windchimes. “It’s just a bad idea all around. You could jeopardize his job, too, and his reputation back home.”
“Tell that to him! He’s the one making moves on me.”
“What? You’re crazy!”
“I’m not arguing about that. But I’ll swear on any book you put in front of me, the Father is not some helpless bystander. He’s into me. He wants to put something in my mouth that isn’t a communion wafer—”
“Ick!! Oh, god, spare me the details!”
“You believe me?”
“Haha… Not one bit.”
“Why does everyone assume I’m up to something? Klinger, what have I ever done to betray your trust?”
“Besides the fact that you showed up here driving a stolen Jeep?” He starts counting on silky gloved fingers. “Well, first, there was that time—”
Hawkeye’s attention wanders around the mess hall, trying to see who else is giving him the evil eye. He’s mercifully unnoticed by most, though.
“—And you lied and said I never even had an orchid. But then why did I have the flowerpot, huh? And then that same weekend—”
The door creaks open and clatters shut again. It’s the Father. As he makes his way to the chow line, he surveys the other diners, and when his eyes meet Hawkeye’s, he brings a hand delicately to his smile and blows a little kiss.
Hawkeye grins devilishly. He has to admit all the teasing is a welcome thrill… But then again, if he wasn’t so enticed by it, he probably wouldn’t be going after a priest in the first place. He can’t help shooting another wink with a little nod of his head towards the chaplain’s tent.
Klinger whips around when he sees that, following Hawkeye’s line of sight directly to a blushing, flustered Mulcahy. Aghast, he turns back to gawk. “Seriously? While I’m right here talking to you? While I’m eating?”
Hawkeye makes some strangled noise of frustration and decides he's overdue for a nap. As much as he’d like to be taking that nap in someone else’s bed, it’s plainly evident that now is not a good time.
Between his roommates seeking him out for chitchat, or familiar nurses (and a few good-looking doctors) trying to gently dissuade him from this whole Mulcahy business, Hawkeye can scarcely get a moment well and truly alone with the Father. Every time he’s about to make a move, he catches someone looking… usually with a less than charitable expression. He figures whatever chances he’s missing by trying to avoid any witnesses are worth saving himself the headaches.
Only by hissing a couple words to Mulcahy as he passes by in Post-Op is Hawkeye able to get a second alone with him one afternoon, hidden safely on the backside of the showers where the running water should keep away any eavesdroppers.
He hides his hands in his robe pockets and slouches as he speaks. “Father, what gives? Why the sudden interest?”
“Hm? I could ask the same of you.”
“I’ve been flirting with you since I met you.”
“You tend to flirt with everyone. And fairly bluntly, if I might add. I can’t recall being formally propositioned until the other day at dinner, though.” Mulcahy tilts his head. “Unless… you’ve also been propositioning me since we met, and I just never picked up on it.”
“No, no… That’s a new development. Came up in conversation at the Swamp last week. Trapper said I’d be an idiot for trying, and I took it as a challenge to finally put my money where my mouth keeps going.”
“Well, to his credit, it does seem to have backfired.” Mulcahy glances over his shoulder to check if anyone’s watching them. “I’m sorry to have gotten you so much negative publicity by reciprocating.”
“If you feel that bad about it, how about I let you make it up to me?” Hawkeye draws in close to whisper with a hand beside his mouth. “If neither of us are busy, I could drop by your tent at 2100 hours tomorrow night, when everyone else is at the movie. Sound good?”
Mulcahy’s own whisper is impossibly soft. “Of course. Now, remember, the communion wine is not for recreational purposes…”
“I’ll bring a whole decanter of Swamp gin. I’d bring the whole damn still if you asked me to. God, why haven’t we done this earlier?”
“I assumed you only thought of me as a very close friend.”
“Father, you are the one single spark of hope in this mind-numbing cesspit. You're the anchor that keeps us from drifting into real insanity. If anything bad happened to you, I think I would set off a bomb in the mess hall and then throw myself onto the fire. Of course I want to rail you until you forget your own name. Or the other way around. I’m flexible. Literally.”
Mulcahy startles, and Hawkeye thinks he’s gone too far, until he notices that something’s caught the Father’s eye ahead of him.
Hawkeye turns quick enough to accidentally whip Mulcahy with his robe tie, and he finds Radar squinting up at him with a clipboard under one arm. Good feeling gone. Deja vu.
“Colonel Blake wants to see you in his office, sir.”
Hawkeye rolls his eyes. “About what?”
Radar mumbles in the general direction of the ground. “He said he wants to ‘tear that bat-dung dandy Hawkeye a new green carnation,’ sir.”
“Ah. Wonderful. I’ll be there with bells on.” No longer caring who sees, Hawkeye waggles a hang-loose gesture near his ear and mouths call me at the Father before letting Radar lead the way to Henry’s office.
It’s a short but mortifying walk given how many passersby are staring, and it’s almost a relief when the doors shut behind them. Henry doesn’t look pleased to be having this impromptu meeting, and that makes three people in the room who don’t want to be here. “Take a seat, Hawkeye.”
It’s a formality; Hawkeye is already on his way to slouching in a chair and propping up his feet, and his unlaced boots thump on Henry’s desk hard enough to knock over a pen from its stand. “What’s the problem this time, Henry?”
“The problem is I’ve heard some scuttlebutt going around about how you’ve been making inappropriate advances on the camp chaplain.” Henry waves a small stack of papers that look to be notorized in a few different places.
“Was the scuttlebutt signed by someone, or two someones, with the title of Major?”
“Well, most of it. But I’ve poked around for eyewitness testimony and had it more-or-less validated, and plenty more added on. A lot of it actually stretches pretty far back. How long have you been making moves on Father Mulcahy?”
“That’s a loaded question, and I won’t stand for it! …But, basically since I got here.”
“Uh huh. Care to tell me why?” Henry has the tone of someone asking a toddler why they thought pouring an entire bottle of chocolate syrup all over the kitchen counter was a good idea.
“I think the eroticism of the forbidden is pretty self-evident, Colonel. And have you seen his biceps?” Hawkeye whistles three notes.
“There’s nothing self-evident about this, except for the fact that it needs to stop. Here, listen to some of the things I’ve been told.” Henry straightens the papers. “We got a few people saying they saw you intercept the Father on the way into the showers and offer to help him wash up, and that you told him it’s ‘what Jesus would do.’”
“Y’know, do unto others… I try to live by the golden rule.”
“Another person said that last month, you asked the Father if you would have to get on your knees if you went to his service, and that you made some kind of obscene gesture at him.”
“Oh, yeah. It was this one.” Hawkeye pantomimes some rough fellatio with his eyes rolling back in his head.
“I don’t need any visual-aids, Pierce.” Henry sets the papers aside. “I can’t believe I haven’t noticed anything you were doing with him until now. I admit I may have failed as a commanding officer by letting it go on for this long.”
“Oh, don’t be so hard on yourself, Henry. You’ve already failed as a commanding officer for a million other reasons. Why should this little hiccup reflect any worse on you?”
“Thank you, Hawkeye, I—” Henry catches himself and scowls. “Look, people are talking, and it’s going to roll uphill. I don’t want the 4077th to be known as a hotbed of perversion.”
“Got it. I’ll go tell Frank.”
“Hawkeye, you know I try to be accommodating and accepting of everyone here, whether they want me to or not. But I draw the line at outright harassment.”
“Again with the—! Look, Henry, I am not harassing him! He’s reciprocating! And this past week, he’s been the one instigating all the interactions I’ve been getting such a hard time for. He slapped my ass in the O.R.!”
“He slapped your ass in the O.R.?”
“Okay, he gently touched my lower back in the O.R.. But that’s like third base for a priest!”
“I don’t know what you’re trying to pull here, but I know it’s a fast one. Radar, what was Hawkeye doing when you went and found him for me?”
“Uh, he was talking to Father Mulcahy, sir.”
“Okay. And what kind of conversation were they having?”
“Oh, I… really don’t want to repeat it.” He gulps, suppressing a flustered grin. “It was very dirty, sir.”
Hawkeye sticks his arm out between them. “And it was just perfectly normal, consensual dirt! Why doesn’t anyone believe me?”
Henry and Radar just stare speechlessly, exchanging a disbelieving glance between themselves.
Grunting, Hawkeye drags himself to his feet. “I don’t deserve such shabby treatment outside of the bedroom! Good day to you, gentlemen. I said good day!” He flourishes his robe like Victorian coattails and marches out of the office.
Henry tries to facepalm, but yelps in pain when his hand slaps right onto the fishing lures across the front of his hat. “Radar!”
“Yes, sir?”
“Let me know if—”
“—if Hawkeye makes any more unsolicited advances on Father Mulcahy, and don’t get so bashful about repeating what he says next time.”
“—says next time.”
“Yes, sir.”
Movie night has drawn a substantial crowd tonight, and with so many personnel either in their seats or in someone’s lap, it’s the perfect cover for Hawkeye to creep through camp unnoticed, shuffling in a meandering loop-de-loop trail from one location to the next before he finally ducks into the chaplain’s tent without knocking.
It’s a strange space, almost liminal. There’s nothing special about its construction; it’s built from the same wood and tarp and mesh screens as any other tent in the camp. The fact that this tent was chosen to be the chaplain’s tent was almost certainly an afterthought; it could have just as easily been any other tent. It’s hardly decorated with anything special or even anything pretty. The only real difference is that it says “chaplain” on the front door and its sole occupant doesn’t have any roommates. Yet, somehow, the mere status of being the chaplain’s tent, and the knowledge that hardly anyone ever sets foot in here but the chaplain, imbues it with the same elevated atmosphere as any other sacred space.
…Which of course means Hawkeye feels some horrible stomach condition coming on just by stepping inside.
Mulcahy jumps with a gasp at the sound of his door opening so late at night, and the novel he was reading falls out of his hands and hits the floor.
“Sorry, Father. Figured knocking was too risky.” Hawkeye stoops to retrieve the dropped book. “Huh. Didn’t have you figured for a Hemingway fan. Or at least not a fan of anything but his boxing.”
“I… enjoy his writing style.” Mulcahy carefully takes the book as it’s offered back to him and sets it aside on his desk. “It has very few frills… What you see is largely what you get. There’s a charm to the bluntness of it.”
Hawkeye glances around the tent, fiddling awkwardly with his robe tie. “I figured you would care a little more about pretty words than Hemingway does.”
“Well, I’m sure I do! But I enjoy living vicariously through his work. I don’t think we’re anything alike— again, save for the boxing. But the emotions under his writing are much more universal, and it’s interesting to see them shine through all the trappings of American machismo, despite his outward aversion to all things delicate and sensible.”
Miraculously, Hawkeye manages to drag a chair up to Mulcahy’s side without it clapping shut on his hand like a gigantic mousetrap. “So, you’re saying you like the rugged manly-men, huh?” He strikes a wide-legged pose and smirks.
“Oh, don’t worry, Hawkeye; I wouldn’t compare you against anyone.”
“Hey! …What do you see in me, anyway?” His tone softens. “I always thought I’d have to get on my knees and beg if I wanted half a chance with you.”
Mulcahy ducks his head as his voice quavers even more than usual. “Y-you have a profound compassion for those less fortunate, to the point of being self-sacrificial. I know you have a reputation for acting callously, but…”
“You’re turned on by the bad-boy persona?”
“No! I mean… I don’t… That’s n-not the whole picture.”
Hawkeye has been waiting for the massive ego-stroke from the camp chaplain praising his unique agnostic righteousness as something all others ought to strive towards. He’s daydreamed about it every time someone’s hassled him over something petty and immaterial. He’s even imagined Mulcahy awarding him some sort of medal or fancy scarf or something. Maybe that’s not a very righteous thing to fantasize about… But right now, he doesn’t care about humility; he just wants to hear about what the hell is getting the Father so hot under the collar. “Maybe it’s not the whole picture, but I wanna do a little detail work right now.”
Mulcahy glances at the tent door and is relieved to see it’s been locked with the little window neatly covered. “I’m somewhat envious of you. I don’t regret my choice of profession, but…” He blushes. “You’re very entertaining to watch. You make it look like you’re having a lot of fun.”
“What looks fun? When do you watch me?”
He smiles impishly. “Hawkeye, I just complimented your selflessness. Don’t make me chastise you for your ego.”
“I’m just curious about all the little ways I can drive a priest crazy. You don’t make it easy for me to guess, y’know. Your poker face is unmatched. Is it all the practice from confessions?”
He looks Hawkeye up and down, slowly. “You must really want me to keep complimenting you. Pride is a sin, you know.”
Hawkeye leans in, grinning. “What’s the line? Sorry, Daddy, I’ve been bad…?”
That earns an exasperated but very amused sigh. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”
“…I feel like I’m being set up. No way is the chaplain letting me flirt with him. What’s the catch? Aren’t you supposed to have already kicked me out and told me I’m going to hell?”
“Perhaps I should, to keep up appearances…”
“No, you shouldn’t!” Hawkeye squarely places a hand on Mulcahy’s thigh. “No one has to know you put out. I’ll tell everyone you turned me down.”
“And let them all think you proved them right? That you really were harassing me?”
“I can handle it. Give them a week or two and they’ll find some new gossip to get mad over— probably another stupid thing I’m gonna do— and your reputation will be totally fine.”
“Oh, Hawkeye…” Mulcahy takes the hand from his thigh and holds it warmly. “This is why I like you— why I’ve always liked you. No matter how you try to hide it, I know how much you care. I can tell that you feel everything deeply and intensely.”
“Thank you, Father.” He knows he shouldn’t toy with someone who just said the kindest thing he’s heard all week— especially someone who regularly holds that honor— but he just can’t leave an opening on the table. And it’s easier than verbalizing all these slippery soft emotions. “May I add you to the list of things I feel deeply and intensely?”
Mulcahy laughs and rises from his seat. “Of course.” He holds out his hand lightly. “Lead the way.”
Hawkeye jumps up and snatches that outstretched hand to yank Mulcahy off towards the tent’s one skinny bed, and he throws himself down onto it with a sharp squeak of metal.
Giggling, Mulcahy kicks his boots off and follows suit, straddling him. “I don’t care what else you leave on, but you’re not going to track mud onto my mattress.”
Hawkeye grunts and tries to unfasten his laces without either sitting up nor kicking his partner in the head. It only takes a moment; he gets a lot of practice at this sort of thing, and two loud steel-toed thuds resonate somewhere at his sides. “Leave the turtleneck on. And the jewelry.” He flicks the shining crucifix dangling between them and notices the emaciated silhouette embossed onto it. “I’ve been told I have to save room for this guy.”
Mulcahy covers his mouth. “Ohh, I shouldn’t laugh…”
“Give into the temptation!”
He gets a sharp laugh forced out of him by the way Hawkeye bucks upward and bounces him. “You really are the best stress-relief this place can prescribe.” He runs his hands across the only-slightly-stained off-white tee that’s already riding up a little on Hawkeye’s midsection. “Seeking you out has become a habit for me whenever I’m upset. You always know just what to say.”
“From now on, if you’re ever feeling under the weather, I’ll be happy to do housecalls.”
“And when I’m in a better mood?”
“Well, I’ve always emphasized the importance of preventative medicine.” He tugs the Father downward by the necklace. “C’mon, let’s give you a good, healthy dose.”
Kissing a priest is bizarre. Kissing this one is even stranger, because he’s good at it and he’s responding in all the right ways. There’s no awkward clicking of teeth and no over-aggressive face-mushing— just Hawkeye getting worked over by someone he was worried would need a tutorial. He lets his hands roam freely, sifting through Mulcahy's hair, stroking along his stubble, brushing under his shirt's high black neckline.
He gasps when his mouth is free and the kisses start to trail down his jawline. “How long has it been since you did this…?”
“Since I met you.” Mulcahy’s voice is soft but the puff of his breath is searing-hot. “I knew nothing else would satisfy.” His mouth wanders down closer to Hawkeye's collarbone.
“Oh, baby, you should have told me. I would have been on you in a heartbeat— ooh, that one hurt.”
He pulls away with a soft pop. “Sorry. Should I try not to leave marks?”
“God, no.” Hawkeye leans his head back to offer plenty of easy access to his neck. “Leave as many as you want. Just don’t be surprised when people start to look at you funny after they see me walking out of here totally busted-up and limping like I fell down the stairs. Ah!”
Mulcahy hums against his neck, considering the idea and relishing the mental image. “That would be one way for me to clear your name.”
“Mmmmm. My hero.” Hawkeye loops his arms around the Father’s shoulders, his loose red robe sleeves bunching up at his elbows. “I don’t care who sees or what they think. They can’t kick either of us out; they need us too badly. And I need you too badly.”
“I seem to recall a saying about desperate times…” Mulcahy sits upright, leaving Hawkeye wanting; he feels those clever hands slide down his sides and rest on his waist, then creep back up under his black top. “I don’t want to get caught kissing you in public, and yet I absolutely do. Perhaps I’m being greedy.”
“Anything you want. Wherever. Whenever. I’ll give you mouth-to-mouth in the mess hall if you want. I’ll even return that little favor you did for me in the O.R..”
“Before we do this…” He sighs, toying with Hawkeye’s dogtags. “I have to know. Will there still be others…?”
“Hell no. You’re too good for me. So good for me, in fact, I’m not even sure you’re real. Actually, let me check that.” He pinches Mulcahy’s backside and gets an undignified squeal in return. “Ah, what a relief!”
“Y-you can’t keep getting these noises out of me! This tent isn’t soundproof; someone might hear—”
“Let ‘em listen. That’s all anyone else is ever gonna get from me from now on. Let’s be the second-grossest couple in camp.”
Hawkeye stumbles into the Swamp somewhere between 0900 and 1400 hours. He doesn’t look hungover, but something is definitely off about his gait as he drags himself towards the still on autopilot and pours a glass of gin.
Trapper is half-asleep with a ratty paperback opened on his lap as he lies back in his bed. “Oh, hey, Hawk. Didn’t see you at the movie. You get lucky ahead of schedule?”
“Mmmmhm.” Hawkeye tosses his bangs aside to unsubtly flash the fresh collection of bites and bruises all across his neck and shoulders. “You’re looking at the luckiest guy in the camp.”
“Am I now?” That gets Trapper to sit up. “Well, who was it? No one I’ve gotten with?”
“No one that anyone here has gotten with.”
“Someone I know pretty well?”
“Someone you have strong opinions on.”
“...What the hell happened to your dogtags?”
Hawkeye snaps out of his reverie and his free hand flies to his sternum. Where his dogtags should be, there’s only a shiny silver crucifix.