Chapter Text
Korea - June, 1951
"I'll keep a light burning for you in a bedpan…"
Hawkeye's eyes glistened. His throat felt tight, his voice cracking. It was almost too much to process. Trapper was going home. Because of an ulcer – of all the crazy things that could get a guy sent stateside – his best friend would be leaving this cesspool for good. He knew he was crying. Trapper was crying, too. There were no more words to do the feeling justice.
As if overwhelmed, Hawkeye turned away, sniffing and pouring himself a drink. His hand shook, and he wiped his face, struggling to compose himself.
"Oh, hey…" Unable to hold back a moment longer, Trapper stood and crossed the room, kneeling beside Hawkeye. He loitered, his hand hovering inches from Hawkeye's trembling knee, unsure of how to help. Emotional talks and reassuring words were not his strongpoint! Eventually, he swallowed his nerves, leaning close and wrapping his arms around him. His hands grasped at his robe, stroking affectionately over red corduroy. Hawkeye abandoned his Martini and hugged him back, resting his chin on the top of Trapper's head. Trapper felt his tears dampen his hair.
Reluctantly, they parted. And then, despite the dangers, Trapper reached out with a shaking hand and cupped Hawkeye's cheek. It was risky: it was broad daylight, and the canvas sides of the tent were rolled up, exposing them to the curious eyes of anybody who happened to glance their way. But he couldn't not touch! His fingers moved gently across tear-streaked skin and thick black stubble, until the pad of his thumb pressed against Hawkeye's lips. Hawkeye kissed it.
When their eyes met, each of them knew what would happen next – after all, they may never get another chance.
Less than a minute later, they were stumbling into the supply shed, still tearful and emotional, barely even caring if anybody saw them or questioned it. To hell with them… to hell with everybody.
The room was dark and stuffy. The weather was heating up now, marching them headlong into a blistering Korean summer. The small, north-facing window barely let in a scrap of sun, but Hawkeye didn't even have time to turn a light on. Trapper simply grabbed him, kissing him and pinning him against the door, much as he had done several weeks ago when they first found themselves in here in these circumstances.
Only this was different. This was uninhibited, unbridled, with none of those first-date nerves, and this time, they both knew exactly where this was going.
Trapper's hands were everywhere. His face, his throat, pulling at his clothes, and then finally, they descended below the waist, squeezing his ass gently and pulling him close. "Now who's the animal?" Hawkeye cracked, his voice still harsh from crying.
"Hawk?" Trapper's voice was a pained whisper against his skin. "I want…" He couldn't find the words. And even if he could, he couldn't bring himself to utter them.
Hawkeye nodded against him, his fingers toying with the neckline of his t-shirt. "I know."
It was all the agreement they needed. Hawkeye turned and began to shed his clothing without much concern. His robe and t-shirt were cast aside before Trapper could even comment on his recklessness.
"Hawk!"
The sound of his name made Hawkeye glance up from wrestling with his belt buckle. "What?"
Trapper nodded towards the door, and Hawkeye paused only to help him shunt a crate in front of it. Trapper's gaze was drawn to Hawkeye's now-naked torso, slender and pale in the dim light. Already, this felt dangerous, and Trapper's heart was pounding. "You think that's enough?" He gestured to the crate. It had taken two of them to move it, but... Trapper gave it an experimental shove.
For an extra measure, Hawkeye grabbed a broom and slid it under the door handle.
Why did that not make Trapper feel any safer?
Safe or not, though, he couldn't find it within himself to put the brakes on this. Barricaded within their humid little love-nest, Hawkeye continued to undress in silent desperation. Methodical, pragmatic… More skin was bared, and Trapper watched, unlacing his boots with shaking fingers. Suddenly, he could bear it no longer. Once Hawkeye was down to his khaki underwear, Trapper grabbed him, kissing him forcefully, pushing him towards the stained, sunken mattress in the corner.
They fell, half tripping, half throwing themselves to the floor, and Hawkeye gently opened his arms to embrace Trapper as he nestled against him. "Easy, easy!" Hawkeye's words reached Trapper's ears through a fog of desperation. "We've got all the time in the world."
"We ain't, though," Trapper replied, his voice betraying a depth of feeling Hawkeye had never heard before. They kissed again, parting only so Trapper could strip and so that Hawkeye could shimmy out of his boxers and retrieve the necessary supplies from his discarded fatigues. Naked at last, and shivering slightly, Trapper tossed his underwear aside, barely glancing at Hawkeye until he had scrambled onto the mattress to sit beside him.
He almost couldn't bring himself to look. He'd seen him naked in the showers, but never like this, and so, for the first time, Trapper let his eyes wander up and down Hawkeye's body as they embraced.
They'd never done it like this before. They always kept their clothes on. Somehow, the feeling of being naked beside his lover seemed even more intimate than the act itself. His hands found bare flesh everywhere they moved; naked limbs brushed against one another as they nestled together in the dark. It felt so good, feeling one another up close like this, but frightening all at once. When Trapper pulled Hawkeye close and kissed him, pushed him down onto the mattress, their bodies pressed together, not a scrap of clothing between them, and he shivered. "Jeez, Hawk… the things you do to me!"
Hawkeye snorted with laughter somewhere near his left ear. "Any specific things? That's getting to be quite a list…"
Trapper swallowed. "Yeah... yeah, it is." The list was getting longer by the day, he had to admit. And he was about to hit the final entry, so to speak.
Trapper shook his head to clear it. If he thought about it too hard, he realised, he couldn't do it. But that didn't matter – there wasn't time to think. Thinking could come later. He'd deal with that once he was on his way home to Louise. Right now, all the mattered was Hawkeye.
As he'd done before, he pushed Hawkeye onto his back, settling between his legs. But, as Hawkeye stared up at him, Trapper hesitated, unsure how this was supposed to work. "I don't wanna hurt ya," he offered by way of an explanation.
"You won't. Trust me on this."
Shaking a little, Trapper glanced him up and down once more, frozen in place, an anxious sweat rising on his skin. He shivered. "I don't... I don't know what I'm doin' here."
Hawkeye took the hint, and the lead. He shoved an army-issue prophylactic into Trapper's hand. "Put that on."
Sitting back on his heels, Trapper found himself fumbling with the tiny packet, nervous like a schoolboy. Twice, he nearly dropped it, distracted as he noticed Hawkeye unscrewing a familiar blue and white tube of surgical lubricant – packaging that reminded Trapper of countless other distinctly less erotic scenarios where he'd used that same product.
They made their preparations hastily and in silence, for which Trapper was almost grateful. Trapper's task was a familiar one, but what Hawkeye was doing made him blush! He could scarcely watch, until Hawkeye let out an obscene moan – a sound Trapper had learned to relish over the past week or so – and suddenly he couldn't take his eyes off him. This felt so strange: Hawkeye was sprawled naked before him, and, for the first time, Trapper felt no shame in looking. He moved close again, hovering over him, chest to chest, almost touching. As Hawkeye squirmed again, Trapper felt his body rise off the mattress and press against him. The next sound Hawkeye made was swallowed up in a kiss.
Trapper's hands were shaking. Some curious part of him ached to touch Hawkeye like that, to make him moan and arch and rut wantonly against Trapper's body, but he couldn't quite bring himself to make the offer. His shamelessness didn't quite go that far. Instead, he just watched, until, at last, Hawkeye wiped his hands on a convenient pair of shorts – Trapper couldn't tell whose – and gestured to him.
Settling between Hawkeye's legs once more, Trapper gazed at him, feeling strangely detached from reality. Was he really going to do this? A voice somewhere in the back of his head told him he shouldn't; a thousand voices called him a thousand names, and he struggled to silence them all. What did this mean? What did it make him?
It didn't matter now. Desire outstripped self-loathing. This was his last chance, and as he gazed down at the man lying beneath him, he knew he had to take it. He placed his hands on Hawkeye's knees, pushing them back and apart, and pressed forward.
He felt clumsy, and almost humiliatingly awkward. He slipped a little, and Hawkeye winced.
"Sorry."
"Don't worry about it."
"I can't..."
"Here, let me..."
Hawkeye slipped a hand between them to guide him. Trapper soon caught on and quickly followed his lead. And then, he moved forward just right, and the air was sucked from his lungs as he found himself buried deep inside Hawkeye.
He couldn't breathe. He was overwhelmed with the new sensation, the intensity, and the emotion. He hadn't expected it to feel so… different. Beneath him, Hawkeye whimpered, his breath coming in short, shallow pants. There were tears in his eyes. "You ok?" Trapper asked. "Am I hurtin' ya?"
Hawkeye shook his head. "Not really. It's just…" He paused, taking a deep breath in, and a calming breath out. "It's been a while. I think... Ah! I think I rushed myself. It's alright, though. Feels good." He smiled, and the movement made a tear fall. Trapper kissed it.
They remained perfectly still for a moment, locked in a strange mid-coital embrace, barely moving. Eventually, the need for release became too great, and Trapper began to rock gently against Hawkeye's body. They didn't speak, didn't laugh, didn't even take their eyes off each other. Trapper moved instinctively, and Hawkeye moved with him, his legs wrapping around Trapper's waist, as Baker's had done as he'd watched them. Trapper held him tightly, his hands stroking through his hair, his body covering him, holding him down when he began to thrash and arch, which only seemed to make him thrash more. Their gasping, rhythmic breathing filled the tiny room, steaming the tiny window, concealing them utterly from any passers-by. Hawkeye really moaned when he got going, and wailed when he came, but Trapper silenced him with a kiss, his own climax following shortly after. When he lifted his head, Hawkeye gazed up at him, his eyes glistening, and raised a hand to his cheek.
Neither of them spoke. Instead, they held one another for the longest time.
Trapper completed another lap of the almost empty Officer's Club, nearly tripping over the broom as Igor made a futile attempt to clean up. He seemed to be dancing, but he wasn't doing a very good job of it. For a start, he was trying to waltz to a tango.
Hawkeye watched over the rim of his Martini glass. He knew Trapper had drunk nothing but milk all night; he was drunk on emotion and exhaustion. The jukebox continued to play, and Trapper danced on:
' When we are dancing and you're dangerously near me
I get ideas, I get ideas…'
Completing his circuit, Trapper reached a bar stool and slumped onto it, resting his head in his hands as he leaned on the bar.
"They're outta milk," Hawkeye told him with a smile.
Trapper looked up, raising his eyebrows. "I drained the bar?! Damn! I ain't done that since I was in college!"
Chuckling, Hawkeye swirled the remainder of his drink and debated ordering another. "It's okay, you know," he said, still staring into his glass. "You're allowed to be upset. If I were you, I would be. You don't have to pretend you're glad to be stuck with me in this cesspool."
The words 'with me' were jumbled into the rest of the sentence, but he was begging for Trapper to notice them. Silence was the only reply as Trapper stared glumly at the wooden counter. And then, as if Hawkeye's words granted him permission, his shoulders suddenly shook, and he started to cry.
Just as Trapper had done for him not so long before, Hawkeye slid from his perch and rushed to Trapper's side, holding him, pulling him close. It was strange: they had cried before because he was leaving, and now, Trapper cried because he was staying. His body trembled, and he sobbed noisily into Hawkeye's silk robe.
"I just…" he began, choking on tears. "I miss my girls."
Hawkeye's heart jolted. For a moment there he had expected Trapper to say 'I miss my wife'. The relief was followed instantly by a wave of guilt. What if he'd wanted to say that, but was censoring his own grief for Hawkeye's benefit? Suddenly, Hawkeye felt disgustingly selfish – selfish because his friend was having to hide his feelings, and selfish because he was glad he was staying. He was glad he was keeping him from his wife and his family. Keeping him for himself, so they could fuck in the supply closet and make out behind the generator shed and make eyes at one another across crowded rooms.
"I'm sorry," he said weakly, stroking Trapper's arm. "I really am."
'Am I?' he thought, despising the idea that he might not be. But the sight and sound of Trapper in such distress answered the question, as Hawkeye found himself crying, too.
Trapper sniffed and pulled him into a bear hug. "It ain't your fault, is it? What the hell're you apologisin' for, huh?" He gave Hawkeye a somewhat forced smile.
Hawkeye managed a dry chuckle and shook his head. "Never mind."
Again, Trapper squeezed him tightly, and they stood at the bar, wrapped in each other's arms for several seconds. There was a clatter as Igor deposited his broom behind the bar and vanished to take out the trash, and, suddenly, they felt strangely hyper-aware that they were alone. Their embrace, without a single movement, suddenly became more intimate. The jukebox continued to play, and Trapper murmured along with it, his words barely audible, and a little out of key. "I want to hold you so much closer than I dare to… I want to scold you 'cause I care more than I care to…"
Hawkeye laughed. "Are you trying to sing, or is this some kind of acid reflux due to the ulcer?"
But Trapper wasn't listening; he was lost in Tony Martin's baritone, singing along to himself: "And after we have kissed goodnight and still you linger, I kinda think you get ideas too…" Trapper's voice cracked, and he held Hawkeye just a little tighter.
Hawkeye shivered in his embrace. It was a tender moment, broken all too suddenly as Igor returned with crates of beer, and Trapper pulled away, wiping his eyes and coughing loudly. He picked up his glass, remembered it was empty, set it down again, and announced loudly that it was time to turn in. Hawkeye complied without a word, and Tony continued to warble on as they staggered out.
'Your eyes are always saying the things you're never saying
I only hope they're saying that you could love me too.
For that's the whole idea, it's true:
The lovely idea that
I'm falling in love with you…'
They walked side by side back to the Swamp, not-quite-touching, in that way that had adopted long ago, long before this all began. They heard Frank and Margaret arguing loudly in her tent – an indication that they had at least a few minutes of alone time, or possibly more, depending on how the argument resolved itself – and retreated into the sanctuary of their shared quarters. The canvas had been drawn down for the night to conserve the warmth within, and now, tonight, it felt all the more intimate.
Trapper sat, unlacing his boots with painstaking care and setting them aside before shrugging off his robe. Hawkeye tossed his cowboy hat casually across the tent, and slid his silk robe from his shoulders. He was about to hang it up when he saw Trapper turn out his pockets, a ritual no different to any other night, only this time, as well as his usual scraps of paper and other detritus, he came out clutching a torn army-issue condom wrapper.
He froze for a moment. He must have pocketed it in haste when they'd cleared up the supply room earlier that day.
Hawkeye felt a sudden chill. It was strange, but now he found himself faced with evidence of their frantic tryst, he wasn't sure how Trapper was going to take the whole thing. They'd acted out of passionate desperation, believing that they would probably never see one another again. How would Trapper feel about it now?
Hawkeye wasn't sure he wanted to know. As Trapper disposed of his pocket garbage in the stove, Hawkeye turned away, hanging his silk robe next to Trapper's yellow one, his hand trailing over the fluff of the towelling cloth. He didn't hear Trapper approach, until, as if out of nowhere, his hands were on him, and Hawkeye found himself being squeezed tightly in a warm pair of arms. He turned to face him. "Oh, hi," he purred, masking his surprise under his usual, overtly-sexual charisma.
"Hey," Trapper murmured. He gave a tight smile.
"You okay?"
Trapper shrugged. "Yeah…" His fingers stroked gently over Hawkeye's nape. "It's been a rough day," he confessed, "but I still got you though, right?"
Hawkeye smiled. "Of course you do." A playful insult lingered at the tip of his tongue, but he bit it back. Instead, he leaned forward and kissed Trapper gently on the lips.
Kissing him back only briefly, Trapper glanced furtively through the little window in their front door. The lights in Houlihan's tent were now dimmed, with Frank still nowhere to be seen, and the camp was quiet. "It looks like we got the place to ourselves. What do you say we have our own private party 'fore Frank slinks back in the small hours?"
Another kiss. "You mean here?"
"Yeah." Trapper kissed a trail up his jawline. "Right here." He nibbled on Hawkeye's neck, sucking gently at the soft skin he found there.
Hawkeye melted in his arms, and Trapper tugged the blind down over the window.