Work Text:
Time seems to expand and contract during long stretches in the operating room, and Francis doesn’t realize they’ve been at it for nearly 12 hours until he glances up at the clock. It’s 7 p.m., and they started at dawn.
They’ve just sent the last patient to post-op, the final one in a seemingly endless line of wounded boys that arrived at dawn.
Days like these are so busy that there isn’t much time to think, but Francis always finds a moment to wonder if there’s more he could be doing. He jumps in to help the surgeons and nurses whenever he can, but there’s so much to do and he wants to be able to take more of it on. He knows he’s not a doctor, but he wants to help alleviate the burden of it all.
Once every patient is safe in recovery, Colonel Potter tells them all to get some rest.
“That’s an order,” he says, and his tone is firm but his eyes are soft.
Long work OR sessions are nothing new to them, of course, but something about this one felt particularly trying. No one died on the table, but something about the routine of it all weighs heavily on Francis. Their reality was trying their best to help a neverending line of injured soldiers. Today it worked, but that wasn’t always the case.
Almost everyone else has made their way to the scrub room. Francis is about to do the same when notices Hawkeye, leaning against the wall with his eyes closed. His surgical mask hangs loosely around his neck, oddly white against the bloody gown.
“Hawkeye?” he askes.
“I’m fine, father. Just reeling from all of these visitors the war was so thoughtful to send us.”
The quip is devoid of humor, and his voice lacks any energy. He’s a far cry from making the whole OR light up with laughter.
Francis worries about Hawkeye, about the way he cycles between moods like this. He tells himself he’s reading too much into it, that the war gets to everyone. But Hawkeye is never far from his mind. He’s the one who Francis can count on to make him smile on a rough day, but he’s also who Francis thinks often feels the pain of the war the most deeply.
He thinks of the Igitation spiritual exercises he was taught during seminary. He was initially drawn to them because of their possibilities in empathy. It was a chance to contemplate someone else’s experience, reflect on what they were seeing and hearing and feeling. It interested him, and he thought it would help him better serve his flock one day.
When Francis first arrived in Korea, he tried to continue this contemplation in quiet moments when he could catch them, but as time went on, he kept envisioning Hawkeye during the passion scenes.
Hawkeye with a crown of thorns on his head. Hawkeye with the weight of the war on his shoulders.
Francis stopped, telling himself it was sacreligious, but the real reason buried in the back of his mind is that he doesn’t want to think about why Hawkeye means that much to him. That line of thinking is the equivalent of walking through a minefield.
He’s usually able to keep the thoughts far enough from his mind, but sometimes—like now—they sneak up on him and are present in full force before he realizes it.
In the OR, there’s a layer of sweat across Hawkeye’s brow, and Francis wipes it away gently.
Normally, he’s aware of touching people. It’s a key element of so many of the church’s rituals and rites. But his hand on Hawkeye’s forehead is automatic. It feels natural, an extension of what he does during surgery.
Hawkeye opens his eyes, and it dawns on Francis that they aren’t in the middle of an operation. But Hawkeye doesn’t seem bothered by the contact. His gaze is unfocused, worn out from hours of working at the highest caliber. Francis takes his arm gently and guides him to the scrub room.
They’re the last ones in there now. The bins of surgical garb to be laundered are nearly full. Francis pulls his own scrubs off as Hawkeye slowly does the same.
“If I were a lesser man,” he murmurs. “I’d just go straight to bed. I don’t mind sleeping smelling of gin, but I can’t sleep with blood on me.”
Francis nods. He can’t sleep without showering, either. Something about standing under the hot water, when the temperature can get just right, helps him decompress. The ritual turns his thoughts into something manageable.
“Let’s go to the showers, and then I’ll get your towel for you.
“You’re a godsend.”
“That’s what my collar says,” Francis says, a thread of humor carefully stitching its way through his concern. A hint of a smile makes its way across Hawkeye’s face.
They step outside, where a group of people are already leaving the showers. The sky is golden as the sun sets, creating a colorful backdrop to the camp that Francis is too tired to fully appreciate.
He settles Hawkeye on a bench in the men’s showers and makes his way to the Swamp. BJ isn’t there, and Francis wouldn’t blame him if he was trying to forget the long day at the Officers Club. Charles is fiddling with his record player.
“Hello, Father,” he looks up as the record starts.
Francis nods in response.
“Where does Hawkeye keep his shower kit?”
Charles raises an eyebrow.
“Considering the pigstye he and Hunnicut are content to live in, I wouldn’t deign to know.”
Francis looks at him for a second longer, and fatigue or irritation must make its way onto his face, because Charles raises his arms into the air.
“You might check the area to the left of his cot,” he suggests.
Francis finds what he’s looking for and picks the green bar of soap sitting on top of the folded towel.
“Thank you, Major,” he says as he steps outside, leaving the notes of classical music behind.
He makes his way to his own tent, glancing at the picture of his sister sitting on a pile of books next to his cot before gathering what he needs.
More people are walking back to their tents from the showers, and when Francis returns, he and Hawkeye are the only ones there.
“Well,” Hawkeye says, voice soft but slightly warmer than it was in the OR. Francis sees a hint of the man who sang with him in the Officers’ Club. “Fancy meeting you here.”
Francis smiles, setting the shower kit in front of Hawkeye and handing him his towel.
“Have a good shower and then get some rest,” he says, making his way to his own stall.
Hawkeye doesn’t reply, and Francis looks back to find him still sitting exactly where he was. It’s like he’s a statue sculpted from fatigue.
Francis moves back toward Hawkeye and helps him off the bench.
“Thanks,” Hawkeye murmurs. “I think someone switched my limbs out for bricks.”
The fabric of his shirt is sweaty and threadbare between Francis’ fingers as he pulls it over Hawkeye’s head. The sharp angles of his chest come into view.
He hopes Hawkeye will be able to finish undressing himself, but he’s still not moving.
“Do you want me to…?” Francis touches the waistband of Hawkeye’s pants lightly. He tries to keep his attention on the groove of the elastic rather than what’s underneath them, what he’s closer to than ever before.
Hawkeye nods. His blue orbs are nowhere in sight, and his lashes decorate the area underneath his eyes.
Francis tells himself he’s just helping a wayward sheep in his flock, his duty as a priest, as his thumbs slip around Hawkeye’s pants. He inhales as he pulls them down. Hawkeye’s legs, long and skinny, come into view.
Francis has seen Hawkeye in his shorts before, but something about this is more intimate. It’s just the two of them, and Hawkeye is much more vulnerable than the time he marched naked across camp on a dare.
Francis is grateful that Hawkeye manages his own underwear and then guides him toward the shower. He turns the water on and starts to make his way to the neighboring stall.
“Could you,” Hawkeye begins, and Francis looks back at him. He’s stopped talking. His eyes are glued to the ground, as if whatever he was going to say got caught up in the swirl of the drain.
“Hawkeye?”
When he looks up to meet Francis’ eyes, his gaze is almost hesitant. Francis is drawn to Hawkeye’s exuberance, the way he makes jokes that make him wonder if he should be laughing this hard, but his quieter moments always pique his attention.
“Could you stay?”
Francis nods, moving toward the water to join him.
Hawkeye smiles faintly.
“You’ll get soaked like that.”
He takes a deep breath, staring down at his green button-down.
“I suppose you’re right.”
He wonders if Hawkeye can tell that his heartbeat is louder than Reveille in the mornings, more prominent than any church bells.
He tries to center himself. If undressing Hawkeye was helping a friend, taking his own clothes off is just a practicality. There’s nothing untoward about it.
Francis puts his clothes aside and joins Hawkeye in the shower. He’s leaning against the edge of the stall, eyes closed.
Francis takes the soap and gently presses it into Hawkeye’s shoulder. His eyes flicker open and a smile makes its way across his features.
“At least buy a guy dinner first.”
Francis mirrors Hawkeye’s expression in spite of himself. He’s so exhausted—he must not fully realize what he’s saying.
He tries not to focus on Hawkeye’s body as he soaps his other shoulder, but his eyes keep wandering to the sharp angles of his chest. He feels the bones in his chest underneath the soap suds. He moves his hands slowly and carefully, like every section of Hawkeye’s chest is a rosary bead that’s part of an intricate prayer.
Not for the first time, he wonders what it would have been like if they’d met stateside and he’d been able to feed him from his garden. His angles would soften just a bit, and Francis’ worries would follow suit.
If he can’t nourish him like that, he can at least take care of him under the harsh water of the showers. The suds on his chest rinse away, and Francis moves up, past the stubble on Hawkeye’s chin, past the blue eyes, and shampoos his hair. Hawkeye leans into his touch, and Francis is probably imagining it, but for a second, it seems like the stress on Hawkeye’s face alleviates.
Francis has taken a vow of celibacy, but Hawkeye makes him think about encounters before that, before seminary, before committing himself to this path. He thought he could give them up easily, but with Hawkeye, he wonders if he’d made his choice too soon. As much as he usually feels comfortable in his identity as a priest, Hawkeye tilts the axis of his existence just a bit.
He could daydream about building a life with him, if he’d let himself. A house with a garden and a comfortable living room for hosting poker games with friends.
He doesn’t think it would ever amount to anything, even if he wasn’t already committed to the church—Hawkeye could have his pick of nearly everyone in the camp. But Hawkeye’s expression, so blissful and at ease, makes Francis wonder if he would pick him back, like he’s a first string ballplayer getting pulled in for the championship game.
Hawkeye opens his eyes, and there’s a twinkle there that Francis hasn’t seen all evening. He hasn’t realized how much he’s missed it.
“If Jesus didn’t get to you first, you could have had a promising career in hairdressing.”
Francis chuckles to himself. He doesn’t meet Hawkeye’s eyes for fear that his blush will become too obvious. He focuses on guiding Hawkeye’s head under the water again so he can rinse.
He thinks of how tired Hawkeye looks, how hard he knows he works. Francis feels the familiar worry that Hawkeye is carrying the weight of the entire war on his shoulders.
He thinks of the spiritual exercises he once loved but has long neglected. He puts himself into Hawkeye’s shoes, imagines what he’s feen feeling ever since he arrived in Korea. It would be nice to have someone to care for him, without reservation.
It’s this line of thinking that gives him the gumption to raise a hand to Hawkeye’s face and push the soap in gently. Hawkeye’s stubble rubs against his hand, creating a friction that grounds him in the moment.
If Hawkeye is surprised, he doesn’t show it. He doesn’t say anything, just stands there under the water with his eyes closed and his face relaxed.
Francis moves to his other cheek, soaping it up carefully before guiding it under the water.
He hasn’t felt this close to someone in a long time. He talks to everybody, but it’s often perfunctory. People keep their distance, assuming that they need to self-censor around him because of his collar. But Hawkeye has never been like that. He’s always treated him like a person, always treated him like a friend.
Francis knows it's a temporary reprieve and that the casualties will keep coming. The gesture feels like everything and nothing at the same time. He feels like he’s Veronica and they’re on the road to Calvary.
Francis runs a hand underneath Hawkeye’s chin, wishing he could absolve him of all the pressure he feels but knowing it would never work.
He moves his hand away, and Hawkeye’s gaze is more at peace than it’s been all evening.
“Ok?” Francis asked, his voice caught in his throat.
Hawkeye nods. It’s an unusual moment when he doesn’t say anything, but Francis can tell he’s more at peace than he was earlier.
Francis washes himself quickly, not wanting to think about his own body. He was gentle and purposeful with Hawkeye, but now he’s brisk and efficient.
Once he’s rinsed off, he takes their towels and dries both of them. He picks up Hawkeye’s robe, that red he would recognize anywhere, and wraps him in it. He ties the belt carefully and then slips into his own robe.
He takes Hawkeye’s arm, and they start walking toward the Swamp. Hawkeye leans against him. A hush has fallen over the area, like the whole camp is asleep.
They walk through the door of the tent. Charles’ music has stopped, and BJ is stretched out on his cot as he reads a letter. BJ looks up when he sees them step inside but relaxes when he sees Hawkeye is steady on Francis’ arm.
Francis lowers Hawkeye onto his cot, wishing it was something softer. Hawkeye smiles up at him, eyes twinkling like light filtering in through a stained glass window.
“I never thought I’d be bedded by a priest.”
Hawkeye’s voice is just above a whisper, and Francis knows he’s the only one in the tent who can hear it. Hawkeye is teasing, but Francis will remember this like it’s something sacred. He’ll think about it for awhile, long after Hawkeye is asleep, as the whole camp is quiet around him.