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Radar’s a real heel for thinking Hawkeye looks pretty like this.
He hasn’t been able to sleep in days, despite direct orders from the Colonel and Trapper trying everything from bribing to threatening to get him to lie down. He’s not well, and Radar really needs to focus on figuring out a way to get Hawkeye into bed, not staring openmouthed at his wet, tearstained face as he sits on Radar’s desk, singing old Christmas songs.
Into bed to sleep, Radar corrects himself sternly. He gets to his feet and reaches for Hawkeye’s arm. The poncho is soaking wet, freezing rainwater dripping down to form puddles on Radar’s desk and the floor.
“Let’s get this off, Hawk, huh?” Radar asks. “You’re probably real cold, all wet like that.”
Hawkeye just stares at him blankly but doesn’t resist as Radar maneuvers his arms to slide the poncho up and over his head. Unsure what else to do with it, Radar hangs it over the back of his chair to dry. The quiet plip plip of water is loud in the suddenly quiet room.
“Uh…” Radar takes a step backwards and gestures towards his cot. It’s probably best if he can distract Hawkeye from his original mission; whoever he was about to send a message to, it sure wasn’t gonna end well for the 4077. “D’you wanna lie down?”
“It’s not gonna work.” Radar pauses, unsure whether Hawkeye is referring to the telegram or Radar’s plan to try and get him to sleep, but then Hawkeye scrubs a fist over his eyes again, and heat blooms in Radar’s chest like a drop of blood in water.
“I gotta stop it,” Hawkeye says, as if picking up a conversation Radar can’t hear. “They’re just gonna keep coming and dying if I don’t, and– and isn’t it irresponsible if I stop trying?”
“Aw, Hawk…” Radar feels at a loss. The thing is, it’s not so crazy what Hawkeye’s trying to do. Heck, there are nights where Radar lies in his cot and pretends that if he managed to get just the right general’s aide on the phone, if he could tell just the right lie to the right person, that maybe he could fix things the way that he magics up blankets and penicillin and fresh food for the doctors every week.
But the war is bigger than either one of them, and neither he nor Hawkeye are gonna be able to stop it on their own, no matter what they do.
After a moment’s thought, Radar clears away the telegram supplies and hops up onto the desk next to Hawkeye. His heart pounds a bit at being this close without asking first (at being this close at all), but it’s nice to feel the warmth of another person beside him.
“I’d help you stop it if I could, Hawk,” he says. “And I think it’s real swell that you care so much about it. I mean, a lotta the guys here say they don’t like it and wanna go home, but you really don’t like it. For everybody, not just you.” He taps his boot against his chair, suddenly self-conscious at saying so much, but when he glances up at Hawkeye’s face, Hawk is studying him closely.
Well. He looks a bit like Radar trying to read a traffic sign without his glasses on, to be honest, but the gaze is intense enough Radar feels pinned like a bug under glass. And it doesn’t help that Hawkeye’s cheeks, still wet with tears, are only inches away from his own now. If he wanted to, Radar could just reach out and–
“You know, I think you’re onto something,” Hawkeye says suddenly. Radar jumps and shoves both his hands in his lap, clenching his hands into fists.
Watch it, you dumb dodo, he scolds himself. He clears his throat. “W– uh, onto what, Hawk?”
“You can find out who’s responsible!” Hawkeye seems to be getting some of his energy back– those adrenals filling themselves up again, Radar guesses– and he grabs one of Radar’s hands in a move that has every muscle in Radar’s body locking up at once. “You always know exactly who to call to find out anything in this heap. I knew I should have come to you first! Oh, Radar, I could kiss you!”
Oh, gosh, don’t say that. Radar hunches his shoulders protectively, focusing all his attention on not getting hard. Hawk’s hand is right there, warm and in his lap and no one’s ever held Radar’s hand like this before, and it’s dangerous, he’s so close to just turning his head and brushing his lips over Hawkeye’s–
Radar slides off the desk, yanking his hand out of Hawkeye’s and taking several steps away. Hawkeye looks confused when their gazes meet, and Radar shifts from foot to foot, clearing his throat again.
“Sure, I can help,” he says. His voice is higher than he wants it, sounds like a scared little kid. “Only, it’s probably gonna take a bit. You wanna lie down while you wait?”
Hawkeye doesn’t resist as Radar takes his arm again and helps him down from the desk, leads him over to the cot in the corner. The blankets are a bit mussed so Radar straightens them, a little self-consciously, then kneels down to untie Hawkeye’s boots. Hawkeye makes a quiet sound of protest, but Radar just looks up at him and places a hand on his knee.
“Let me,” he says. “Please?”
Hawkeye subsides. He watches silently as Radar pulls off his boots and places them underneath his cot, lets Radar guide him until he’s lying down, looking up at Radar with wide eyes. The tear tracks on his face catch the light from the lamp and before he can think about what he’s doing, Radar finds himself brushing the tears away with his thumb.
Hawkeye freezes, lips parted.
They gaze at each other for a moment, Radar’s hand still on Hawkeye’s jaw. The warmth of his skin burns his palm, but Radar can’t force himself to move.
As he watches, another tear wells up and trails down Hawkeye’s cheek. It sparks something deep within Radar’s chest and he leans in, cautiously waiting for Hawk to stop him, until his lips are right there and there’s nothing else to do but kiss the tear away.
There’s a moment of silence. Then Hawkeye’s shoulders hitch with a half-suppressed sob. “I can’t–” Radar jerks backwards, afraid he’s done something wrong, but Hawkeye grabs him by the shirt before he can go too far. “I can’t stop.”
Radar stares at him, feeling like a deer in headlights. More tears are making their way down Hawkeye’s cheeks, dripping down towards his ears and the bridge of his nose. He’s so unbearably beautiful.
“Do you want me to stop?” He can hardly hear his own voice in his ears.
Hawkeye shakes his head.
Radar surges forward. The taste of salt on sharp stubble bursts bright over his tongue as he drags his lips across Hawkeye’s cheek and he lets out a moan, reaching out to tug Hawkeye closer. With a quiet, desperate sound, Hawkeye cranes his neck to try and reach Radar’s mouth. Their lips connect briefly, and then Radar is kissing along Hawkeye’s cheekbone, his tongue darting out to sip away the tears that have collected in the hollow there.
As Hawkeye shivers beneath him, Radar remembers how the guys back home used to say that if you were having a hard time getting to sleep, jerking off was a great way to get tired quick. Maybe it’s worth a shot. Hawkeye is starting to make little pleading noises that make Radar want to grind their hips together and never stop, and when Radar hesitantly brushes a hand down the front of Hawk’s fatigues and finds an insistent hardness that twitches beneath his touch, his face burns so fiercely the room starts to spin.
He trails his fingers back up over Hawkeye’s button fly. Hawkeye looks at him, chest heaving, cheeks flushed. His eyes are red. Radar wants to touch him so badly.
Hawk’s eyes flick down, then back.
Radar is fumbling with the buttons almost before he’s consciously aware of moving. It takes him several tries to get the top one open but then the rest are suddenly undone and he’s pulled Hawkeye’s boxers down just enough and god he’s right there, hard and red and already wet at the tip.
Radar swallows hard. He’s never touched anybody before, but he knows how to do it to himself, so he can’t mess it up that badly, right? Carefully, he slicks his fingertips with Hawkeye’s wetness, feeling himself pulse at the warmth of it, then wraps his fingers around the shaft and begins to stroke.
Hawkeye lets out a breath like he’s been punched. Radar flinches, startled, and glances up at Hawkeye’s face; his eyes are shut tight, his fists clenched in the blanket. Radar can’t tell if that means he’s doing something really right or really wrong.
“Don’t stop,” Hawkeye begs when his hand falters. “Please don’t stop.”
Radar quickly renews his efforts and watches in awe as Hawkeye whines and jerks his hips up into Radar’s fist. His cock is so pretty, slim and curved and weeping fluid with every stroke until Radar’s fingers are sticky with it and his mouth is watering with the desire to taste.
But– he needs to take care of Hawkeye first.
It’s interesting, the flow he sinks into as he touches Hawkeye. The fear and anxiety melt away within minutes, replaced by an intense sort of attention that Radar normally only feels when playing his drum set or tuning the radio to a far-off and staticky signal. Every little movement or wince or sigh or moan is a sign to change up what he’s doing– go faster, slower, tighten his grip, twist his hand a little at the top– and by the time he feels Hawkeye starting to pulse in his hand, he’s almost surprised that it’s already over.
Hawkeye lets out a soft cry, more tears spilling over in what Radar hopes is relief. He leans forward, careful to keep his soiled hand out of the way, and, a little self-consciously this time, kisses away the new tears.
“You okay?” he asks quietly. Hawkeye doesn’t quite seem to hear him. He’s still breathing heavily, but his muscles have gone lax and his eyes are closed to slits.
A little pinprick of doubt stabs Radar in the gut. His cock, so hard and demanding in his fatigues only minutes ago, quickly begins to soften. He worries at his lip for a moment, then sets his feelings aside as best he can and takes out a handkerchief to gently dab at the tear tracks remaining on Hawkeye’s face. Once they’re dry, he cleans the cooling cum off of Hawkeye and his own hand, then carefully tucks Hawkeye back into his shorts and pants and buttons him up again until there’s no evidence of what they’d done.
Hawkeye makes a quiet murmuring sound and shifts lower on the cot.
Suddenly feeling awkward, Radar stands. He makes for the lamp, turning it down until the office is barely lit and Hawkeye is little more than a dark shape on his cot.
He knows he ought to find somewhere else to sleep for the night; there’s no way he’s moving Hawkeye now, not for all the cigars and comic books in the world. But even as he lays his hand on his bathrobe, something stops him, draws him back to the bed like a magnet.
He won’t lie down, Radar tells himself as he eases the blanket out from underneath Hawkeye and tucks him in. He’ll just… stay here a while, make sure no one disturbs him while he gets the sleep he needs. He sits gingerly at the foot of the bed, keeping a careful inch of space between himself and Hawkeye’s shins.
He can keep watch. He’s good at that. He’ll be gone before Hawkeye wakes up, with some juice and one of those bran muffins Hawk likes on the desk for him to find. And maybe, if he’s lucky, Hawkeye will have been so exhausted he won’t remember any of this in the morning.
Hawkeye’s breathing has evened out. Radar watches quietly as Hawkeye’s chest rises and falls under the blanket, and before he knows it, his own eyelids are drooping. As he shifts to lean against the metal wall, his knee bumps Hawkeye’s; Hawkeye doesn’t move, but the contact breaks something inside Radar and he feels a tear of his own drip slowly down his cheek.
As he drifts off to sleep, he can almost imagine the ghost of Hawkeye’s hands brushing them away.