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John steps into the mess tent just about ten minutes before the service is supposed to start, but to his amusement, the good Father's running a bit behind. His stole is hanging unevenly and the linen he's spread out on the table isn't his best one—even from this angle, John can see the frayed edge of a hem, something that Mulcahy would've noticed instantly if his mind was where it should be.
Apparently it isn't. Not that John would know anything about that.
It's not like John's been giving him eyes for a month straight or anything. Not like there's this silent but forbidden knowledge that hangs between the two of them when their gazes catch, when Mulcahy forgets to look away until he's pink-cheeked. Not like the taste of wine's ever gonna make John think of anything but how rich it was on the priest's mouth, how delicately a single drop hung from his bottom lip just before John caught it with his tongue and drank deep from that almost frightened moan.
"J-Just take a seat!" Father Mulcahy says cheerfully as he continues laying out the vessels. "I'll have everything ready in a mo—" And he cuts off at the exact second that he looks over his shoulder.
Adrenaline tastes like a lot of things depending on the situation that summons it. When he hears chopper blades, it's a little like acid. When his date's interrupted by someone pounding on the door of supply, it stings like ginger. And right now, seeing the uncertainty in the man in front of him, knowing full well how easy it is to seduce away, understanding that he's making a conscious choice to screw something up, it tastes like burnt caramel.
It'd be a lot easier to care if John hadn't been chewed up and spit out by the same monster that Mulcahy seems so reluctant to let go of.
John flashes a toothy grin. "Hiya, Father."
"Captain McIntyre." Father Mulcahy reaches to adjust his glasses as though his eyes are deceiving him. John keeps his gaze on him, watching, waiting. "I didn't expect to see you for the service this morning."
"Maybe I'm here for confession." In moments like this when John knows he's making a hurtful decision, there's a little bit more of Boston that slips into his person. It's in his saunter as he sets across the room, in the heaviness of his stare. He's a force to be reckoned with, the kind that doesn't stop when it meets an immovable object—that blasts right through. "When's the last time you confessed?"
"That's a private matter."
Interesting how clear and calm this man sounds. Could be somehow he's forgotten what occurred. Could be he's just willfully forcing himself into ignorance. Yet the closer John comes, the higher Mulcahy's chin lifts, and it's enough of a tell that John's smile widens.
Mulcahy takes a quick, sharp breath through his nose, just barely audible. "If you have a matter to confess, perhaps you can wait until after I've finished?"
"I'm not a very patient guy," John murmurs. It's not entirely correct, but the edge of the banter makes his heart flutter faster, and that keeps him advancing.
"It's a pity," Mulcahy bats right back at him. "Patience is a virtue."
John chuckles. "I'm probably the least virtuous guy you'll ever meet."
Mulcahy whips around to face him, and something about his stance brings John to an instant halt. It's as though he's armored himself, somehow, turned so suddenly into a force to be reckoned with. "Now, I-I don't think that's true. Not at all. You're one of the better men I've had the pleasure of meeting."
John's lips twitch, then settle into a thin line. His hands go loose by his sides.
"You're quite a hero to more people than you might know," Mulcahy murmurs. When John doesn't reply, he goes on. "I admire you. Respect you. In fact, for quite some time, I was very proud to call you my friend."
The past tense flickers through his mind like a light, flashing on and off. It feels like there's something thick in John's throat, and he fights to swallow it down.
Mulcahy cuts his gaze back to the table, this bastardized altar that even he can't charm something completely holy out of, and then he turns to set out the candles, the cruets. "We can talk after I'm finished, Captain McIntyre. Please sit down."
Finally John realizes precisely what it was about Mulcahy that made him freeze like that. There's something about a priest that stands taller than a 20-story building in John's head. He doesn't know if it's the stole or the collar or that fucking crucifix necklace, but just the sight of Mulcahy called to whatever young memories are drilled deep through John's skull, remembering submission, remembering fear. Things that a kid has to be taught, for better or worse.
For him, it was the worse.
But he's no kid anymore, is he? He's not that awkward gangly pup sitting on a hard bench, trying to forget what he dreamed about his best friend Ian the night before. He's not on his knees, fingering a rosary, saying his Hail Marys with half of his mind and already wondering how he's gonna sneak out his back window to find that forbidden pleasure with the other.
And Mulcahy's not the man who so coolly instructed John that joy is a sin, that chains are a blessing.
Mulcahy's wearing all the trappings of John's worst nightmare, but he's still just a man underneath. And John knows what to do with those.
The courage it takes for Mulcahy to put his back to John when he's let him hear exactly what his choked groans of pleasure sound like is respectable. That's what makes this long, drawn-out decision worse, in a lot of ways. John likes Mulcahy. If he didn't, he wouldn't have made a drunken pass at him in the first place—there's plenty of people out there he can get his rocks off with. He doesn't need to go after somebody who bores or annoys the shit out of him.
In a way, Mulcahy's putting a lot of faith in John not to make a move in the middle of broad daylight, in the mess tent, sober, with the sounds of people walking by and chatting on their ways to their various pursuits.
But Mulcahy's also put his faith in a god who doesn't give a shit if they all burn up under a bomb, so. Shows what he knows, really.
John resumes his steps, keeping them completely silent, the kind of floating footfalls he uses when he's sneaking into the bed he shares with Louise, while he's covered in another man's fingerbruises and teeth marks. As he walks, he studies the lovely things about Mulcahy—the featheriness of his hair, the slope of his neck, the elegant shape of his broad shoulders. He's fucking beautiful is what he is.
It's a shame to think about what he sold his soul to in the name of healing others, in his own way. But he's still pretty young. Idealistic. Ready to believe that hell doesn't really exist on this soil.
He almost envies him. Almost.
The moment John's fingers brush over Mulcahy's hip, a hand jolts over them. "Trapper," Mulcahy murmurs warningly.
"The one and only," John whispers back. He leans down to rub the tip of his nose over his top vertebra.
"I told you, I'll speak with you when—"
"I'm not really all that interested in talking." Next, he nips, just a gentle catch of the flesh between his teeth.
Mulcahy shoves one hand off his hip, but when John wraps the other arm around his waist, Mulcahy simply grabs his wrist in a bruising grip. "Now. Why now? Why on earth a-are you..."
As John nuzzles ever so lightly through the silky strands of sweet-smelling hair, his eyelashes flutter closed. "'Cause I missed you."
A pause. "I-I don't believe that's true."
He grins. He knows all about being taught what you're worth, that it's little more than dog shit. That only a higher power can sear you clean. "Whether you believe it or not doesn't change the facts, sweetheart."
Mulcahy's other hand slams down on the table, pulling up a fistful of altar cloth that unsettles the cruets, almost topples them. For a long moment, they stand there together, John tucked up to him like spoons in a drawer, Mulcahy panting with far more than simple arousal. No, there's a heated thread of pure fury under it, something spicy that makes John's mouth water.
Finally he speaks, each word gritted out through a tight throat. "I don't think that we should do this again."
"Okay. Heard." John pulls him back tighter against his chest, fits his hips right against Mulcahy's ass so he can feel that he's half hard. "Whaddya know's gonna happen, though?"
Slowly, slowly, Mulcahy dips his head. From this angle, John can cock a little to the side, can see the glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose where they hang precariously at the tip. There's so much of Mulcahy that's in perpetual balance, teetering, and every time it looks like something's going to slip and break, it gets caught right before disaster.
Some might call it an act of God. And to that God, John would say, If You want him so bad, You can come right down here and try and take him from me.
"If you..." Mulcahy's voice cracks slightly at the edge, and John can feel his deep breath under his palm just as much as hear it. "If you have any respect for my calling, then you'll turn and walk out of those doors right now, and I swear that we'll never speak of this again. No one will hear a word."
Slowly, slowly, John grins. "Father," he whispers right against his ear. "I coulda walked down that same path all those years ago. Honest. Even looked into it when I was still in high school. You think I don't know what you chose? You think I don't know why?"
See, there's a reason men like them take the cloth. Sure, there's a beauty in giving up your life and your decisions to some institution that's gonna dictate everything down to how you brush your fucking teeth. You can even tell yourself that it's because you're chasing a calling, that you understand your purpose has nothing to do with selfish desires. Or. You can be honest. You can say that the second you realize that men stir you in a way that women never will, then you know you're never gonna fucking get married. You might as well have an excuse for why.
If you're not gonna let yourself have somebody in your bed, you might as well devote yourself to some Being who would never see fit to touch you unless you played perfectly by His rules anyway. The very Figure who'd happily grind you into dust under His heel if you ever forgot to apologize for living a life of true, unfathomable joy. To beg for forgiveness for being touched, for being seen for who you really, truly were.
As gentle as a prayer, John presses his lips to the sensitive spot right behind Mulcahy's ear. "Father. Francis. Hate to break it to you, honey, but I don't have a shred of respect for your fuckin' calling. It's you. It's all you. That's the person I actually give a shit about. And I'm not gonna pretty it up and pretend I don't just 'cause you're scared of what you let me see."
Mulcahy shakes his head, forcing John to lean back an inch so their skulls don't collide. "That's unfair. I... No, listen, my calling is an intrinsic part of me. You can't say you respect me, but not my choice to follow the command I was given. You understand that, don't you? I know you do. I am my calling."
"Nah. No, see, you're telling that to the wrong fella." John reaches around him to rest his weight on his hand, the edge of the table jutting into his palm, and Mulcahy lets him. He's all but trapped there now, locked in by John's body, by the altar. "Maybe if you said that shit to anybody else in this camp, they'd believe you." Even Hawk would. Lothario he may be, but he's got a sweeter heart under the surface than it may seem. He's got rules. Lines in the sand that he's never gonna cross. Of the two of them—John and Hawkeye—Hawk's got John beat for who's in the running for the award of Goodest Guy. "But we've got a shared history. Maybe we never crossed paths, but we ran parallel in a way that nobody else here has. So don't pull that on me. Don't stand here and try to convince yourself that you believe it when you already know you wouldn't let me cage you in here if you did."
In this moment, John catches himself wondering at Mulcahy's lack of fight, even emotionally. His words have been firm but ultimately unconvincing. He's not pushing John away in any meaningful manner. He's passive. And John's no idiot. There's something going on in this pretty little head of his that he needs to talk about.
And maybe if John was Hawkeye, he'd pull back, tug Mulcahy to the bench, and get him to start gabbing.
But John is John. And when he gets like this, he's always advancing, not stepping back. He's reading not between the lines, but under them, running his fingertips along what he was taught versus what he knows for certain now. And what he knows is that there's no fucking use in despising a part of himself that gives him more relief than anything else in the world can, and that if Mulcahy is already fragile enough to let John press up so tight against him like this, then he's looking for an excuse to listen.
"Here's what's gonna happen," John murmurs, smooth and serene. "I'm gonna jerk you off."
Mulcahy lets all his air out at once, his fist beginning to tremble on the table.
"I'm gonna touch your cock, and I'm gonna enjoy every second of it, and you're gonna come for me because you're fucking sick and tired of trying to figure out why you've gotta hate yourself for something you never asked to be in the first place. We're gonna do it right here. D'ya know why?"
"Because no one's coming," Mulcahy whispers, the very edge of his last word wet and anguished.
There it is. There's the thing that makes the light go back on in John's head. Because no, actually, that wasn't what he was going to say. Sure, he's right, nobody's gonna show up for services today, but that's just a fact of life at the 4077th. Only guy who might make an appearance is Klinger, and he's sleeping off his guard shift that ended at sunrise.
They've accidentally hit on the tender thing that's making Mulcahy let this happen. Because he doesn't think he's doing shit on the ground here.
Again, Hawkeye would stop. Introspection, primed and ready. But John picks up the pace. There's more than one way to really drive a conclusion home and make it stick.
"Nope. That's not it. It's because you want this. Because if you didn't, you'd tell me to eat shit and leave, and I would. I'd walk away right fucking now if you told me you didn't need it." John gently touches his cheek to the side of Mulcahy's head. There's a couple of ways he could phrase his next question. He picks the words deliberately. "Am I gonna walk away right now?"
A pause, long and tremulous, stretches out between them. John waits. Keeps his mouth shut. Doesn't move a muscle. Barely even breathes.
He's so quiet that he hears Mulcahy's lips part. "No. You're not."
John nods. "So what's gonna happen is once we're done, you're gonna get back out there, and you're gonna keep taking confessions. You'll run your Sunday services. You'll help everywhere you can. Because nothing's ever gonna change the fact that you're the best damn chaplain that coulda got sent here—the only guy who know how to love us the way your God wants you to—and we're gonna keep loving you back, 'cause we'd just about rip the stars outta the sky before we let you get transferred somewhere else, 'cause we don't want anybody else here but Father Francis Mulcahy. Fuck 'em. They're not gonna do the good you do. Nobody could."
This time when Mulcahy shivers, no matter how he tries to hide it, it's the unmistakable shake of a man who's beginning to cry. He's almost completely silent except for his shuddering breaths, but the feel of his body's trembling is just the same as all the other people John's held as they wept, sometimes because of somebody else, but more often than not because of something he did.
John tightens his arm around Mulcahy's waist, can't stop himself from kissing his neck just the once. "And one day," he whispers, barely audible at all. "You're gonna look back on everybody who saw a queer little kid, who got scared, who pushed you to go a certain way so they could try to choke you in a big, big world of ritual and tradition, until you were all tied up with a neat bow made out of a pretty purple stole. And you're gonna realize that the people who tried to kill that part of you, who only gave you that one path to go instead of asking what you wanted, were—"
All at once, Mulcahy tenses, sucking in a raw breath. His jaw goes hard enough that it stabs into John's cheek.
"Easy. Okay. I'll shut up."
"You don't know what you're talking about," Mulcahy hisses. "I wanted it. I wanted Him."
"I know you did," John all but hums, just as gently as he would walk Cathy or Becky through a tantrum. "And you want this too."
The second John brings his other hand to cup Mulcahy through his trousers, he feels the priest give himself over to it. That's all it takes. Just his palm pressing against this man's hard cock. How long's he been hard? Is that why he turned away from John in the first place? So many questions he's never gonna get the answers to.
John groans against the shell of his ear. "You feel fucking good."
A faint whimper is all he gets at first, but when John starts to lift his fingers away, Mulcahy presses back hard into his chest. It's like he's trying to contort himself in some unnatural way, not quite understanding the position he's really craving.
Just to be sure, John releases his waist, but Mulcahy throws his head back against his shoulder and finally lets out something almost feral, and it's all the answer he needs.
With one hand sliding up under his shirt to press into the bare skin of his waist, the other opens Mulcahy's belt without a fuss. John goes completely shameless, grinding against his ass in a lazy rhythm like they just woke up together, like he's getting ready to fuck him before they sound reveille. "I've been thinking about this. About you. Been hungrier for it than a fancy steak. D'you know what you do to a man, Francis?"
Mulcahy rips his glasses off and tosses them across the altar like nothing matters but this exact moment, the way he's rolling his hips backward, desperate to find his way into this rhythm. He covers his eyes as though he's trying to keep the tears at bay.
There's a part of John that thinks he could hold Mulcahy still, force their hips to synchronize in a way that'll make it perfect, but the fact that Mulcahy isn't being a passive observer of his own pleasure is enough to white out John's thoughts like the searing heat of the sun. He chases him a little faster instead, hears his own breath catch in his throat the moment he finds what the other man needs from him, and as the little pulses of pleasure shoot down John's spine, he slips inside Mulcahy's trousers and boxers all at once.
"Fuuuck..." John grins as he gets that hot, slim cock in his grip. It's a little smaller than a lot of guys he's fucked around with have, but at the same time, it's exactly right, the kind of dick he knows he could spend hours teasing and working with instead of getting a tired jaw. It's slick right now too, wet enough that he must've been soaking himself with precum practically since the moment John touched his hip. "I wanna get my mouth on this one day, if you let me."
Mulcahy sniffles, a fresh wave of trembling washing through him, and then he nods.
"Yeah?" John prompts.
"Yes." Oh, he sounds so desperate already. He needs this. It's so clear. "I-I... Oh my Lord..."
He could riff off that. If he was a bigger asshole, he would. But this surrender is too sweet to spoil. "Whaddya want?"
Mulcahy opens his mouth, then snaps it shut.
Too timid to ask for what he needs. That's fine. Not the first time John's had to coax. "Faster?"
The stiff nod says it all. John growls and bites gently at the skin just above his priest collar, not hard enough to leave a mark. As his hand picks up speed, he can feel Mulcahy's knees beginning to wobble, and it doesn't take much to muscle him forward so that Mulcahy has to catch himself on the table.
The roughness of Army boxers and trousers means there's no way in hell that John's gonna get off like this, but the edge of pain biting through the pleasure keeps him centered. Keeps him moving. Keeps him focused on jerking Mulcahy off like it's his calling in life, taking this guy who was so ready to settle for hating himself, trying to coax him back over the line into having this whenever he wants. "Y'know, one day, I'm gonna fuck you too."
"Mmnh—!" Mulcahy holds his body up with one hand, slaps the other palm over his mouth to muffle his broken moans.
"However you want it. I'll pound you over a table. I'll take you in your cot. I'll drive you all the way to Seoul, if you goddamn want, and I'll have you there all day, all night, in the softest sheets in Korea. I don't care. Fuck, you're so good..."
There's a mumble first, but then an almost urgent word. "Trapper?"
John knows what that tone means. "C'mon, Father," he whispers, just the edge of a thorn pricking through the ecstasy. "Come all over my hand. That's it."
What might've otherwise been a shout of pure pleasure gets contorted by a sob. As Mulcahy lets himself go, he nearly ends up limp, and John yanks him firmly back against his chest and holds him there as he brings him off with a tight fist, harder, harder, until there's nothing left but the tears.
Oh, the temptation to rip his own pants down right here, to paint this man's back in his cum. To make him wear that shirt all the way back to his tent to change.
But even with the roaring in his ears, even though he's pretty sure that if he gets even a finger on himself he'll lose it, John's not a monster.
Not right now, at least.
For now, he holds Mulcahy, letting him cry it out. It doesn't take long. He gets the feeling that Mulcahy's spent a lifetime choking things down that he isn't ready to feel. Once he's breathing evenly again, John leaves a kiss on his cheek, then tucks him back in his pants.
Mulcahy makes a quiet sound as he stares at the table, and it takes John a moment to realize that there's a thick stain on the altar cloth now, slowly starting to dry.
"Don't worry about it," John murmurs. He scoops up the glasses first, makes sure they're not broken. "I'll take care of it."
"You don't have to do that." His tone is so rough, it might as well be sandpaper.
"I know. I'm doing it anyway. C'mere."
Inch by inch, he escorts Mulcahy to the nearest bench and settles him there. As John steps back, they lock eyes, and as he often is, John's struck by his gaze. It's the first time they've seen each other since John froze up under his priestly regard, and the difference in his stare is arresting. He's no longer cool, cut off, warning John away. No, now he's open. Vulnerable. He's mourning and he's more than a bit scared, but he's also not flinching back from his fear.
John's lips quirk. He settles the glasses gently on Mulcahy's ears and nose, then thumbs lightly over his cheek. Once the tear tracks are wiped away, he returns to his task.
He takes a thrill from drying his sticky hand off on the edge of the altar cloth. As he stares hard at the vestments, he half-wishes they'll burst into flames. Unfortunately, not that lucky. He'll have to smash them all, take a torch to the rest, if that's what he wants. But it's not his place. He's already ripped his Bible to shreds, burned it and all his other religious chains in a drum back in Boston. This is Mulcahy's to decide what he wants to do with one day.
It's been years, but tending to the cruets, the cloth, all of it is still easy.
"You seem so familiar with it," Mulcahy murmurs. He sounds a little more like himself.
"I was an altar boy. Wasn't kidding when I told you I thought about taking the cloth."
A pause. "What stopped you?"
John shrugs. "Thought I got a girl pregnant. Got rushed into marrying her instead. Kid didn't show up for another decade, but, y'know, better to be thorough, I guess."
"Who rushed you?"
Toothy, easy as anything, the grin rises back up. "The good old Father, of course."
"I see," Mulcahy murmurs.
"I know what you're thinking." John makes sure everything is settled in its place, that he has the cloth bundled up for laundering. His arousal's died down, but the moment he looks at Mulcahy's slim shape, he knows he could get it up again in no time, if he wills it. Hell, maybe he will later. But now's not the time. "Lemme set the record straight. I'm not taking my bullshit out on you."
Mulcahy lifts his brows. "That's quite a display of willful ignorance."
"No, I mean it. I'm not." He could get into it, dig it all up again. But the clock's running down. Igor's gonna need the mess tent sooner rather than later, and he's pretty damn sure Mulcahy's not gonna hear whatever he has to say yet anyway. "I'll tell you about it someday."
"And when's that?"
"Eh. Maybe before the war ends." John tucks Mulcahy's box of supplies under his arm, keeps it secure with the altar cloth, then comes over to extend his hand. "C'mon. I'm taking you back to your tent, and then I'm gonna hold you."
Those beautiful eyes widen behind his glasses. "I don't think you should do that."
"Uh-huh. But whaddya know I'm gonna—"
"You're going to walk me back to my tent no matter what I tell you," Mulcahy murmurs tiredly.
"There you go." John leans down so they're nose to nose, hesitates, then leaves the gentlest kiss possible right on his mouth. It's his own breath that goes shivery this time, ghosting across Mulcahy's lips. "A guy deserves to be held sometimes." So he doesn't have to face his thoughts alone.
Flushed, fetching as anyone he's ever seen, Mulcahy hesitates before he nods. "Just for a little while."
"Just for a little while," John agrees, knowing full well he'll cuddle him all afternoon, if nobody comes looking for them.
Maybe he was lying. Maybe it is a little of his own bullshit getting in the way, not just his aching desire to see Mulcahy embrace these needs he has as something more than a punishment for lack of strength. But he can't deny there's an extremely tender part of him that just wants to fall asleep with somebody who's walked the paths he's walked. Who knows what he's said, what he's done, what he's given up, what he's shaken his fist at and cursed, and who, despite it all, wants him there anyway. Who sees him just as he is. Who never wants to see him as anything or anyone different.
Selfish? Yeah, down to the core. But after everything John gave up, everything he's still struggling to know if he'll ever be able to say goodbye to, he thinks he can be a little selfish here in the middle of purgatory.
Mulcahy slips his hand into John's, lets him pull him to his feet. He doesn't look away.