So- as a starting note to begin all this: This is somewhat shippy and will probably end up being somewhat slashy at some point. Either way, fluff or smut or etc etc, the relationship is between our favorite Doctor Pierce and Doctor McIntyre. If you don't like that, this isn't your story. I plan on this being a collection of short, mostly unrelated chapters on different subjects. Kind of taken from an OTP challenge. Everyone enjoy.
Disclaimer: No part of M*A*S*H or its actors, plot line, funds, (or anything else relating in any way at all to the television show) belong to me. If it did, you'd all be the first to know.
Dear Dad,
It's me again. Hope you're all doing well and have recovered quickly from the bad banana incident. Just thinking about it makes me want to puke, and trust me, that's no easy job. I get used to the derogatory around here- the worst thing I've ever heard is our lunch. It's always making all sorts of sounds..
...
...
I've recently been in contact with an orthopedic surgeon who specializes in hands. I was disappointed to find he only has two. We called him in relation to one of our wounded we had come in about a week ago. The boy's hands had been pulverized. Put neatly, it was like he'd stuck his hands under a meat cleaver for a couple hours while someone relentlessly whacked at them. We're still not exactly sure what happened, except that it involved a lot of firepower. Possibly a grenade or something else that goes bang! But it really got me to thinking, Dad. Hands are great. They are really an important part of all of us. If I didn't have mine, I couldn't operate- or worse, use the latrine on my own. Musicians use theirs for everything, from tuning their guitars to playing a flute or cleaning their instruments. We use them to bring life into this world, to sign orders that will kill thousands, to end a life, to give comfort, to tie our shoes, to steady ourselves- even to tell a story. It's just amazing. If I write to you next time and you find that I've defected and dedicated my life to writing a book about all the deep insights I've learned being a professionally operating clown in this crazy man's circus - well, I'll send you my first copy free- and signed.
Can't wait to hear from you again,
Hawkeye
The dark-haired surgeon looked up from his pen and paper, staring at the ceiling of the Swamp. It was just hot enough out that he didn't feel like doing much, even though there had been a semi-approachable meal for dinner and the nurses were talking just outside his tent. Folding the letter up and setting it beside him, Hawkeye flopped over on his back and closed his eyes, eventually falling asleep.
Sometime later the door banged shut and woke him with a start. It was past dark, and the camp was considerably quieter than it had been when he'd fallen asleep. Cooler, too. Trapper was making his way to the basin of water across the tent. Frank was nowhere to be seen, so it was probably safe to assume he was off somewhere "Going over medical records," or "Working on hot-weather-attire protocol," with another certain Major.
"Having a good evening, Captain?" Hawkeye pulled his blanket up under his chin and smiled with sickening sweetness at his friend.
"Oh, ya know. No moon means no shadow on the water. Caught me a nurse," Trapper said. Hawkeye smirked, but the look quickly faded when Trapper turned to him, holding out a blooded arm. Swinging his legs over the side of his cot and standing up, Pierce swore under his breath. "Had a little accident, too." Trapper made his way over to his friend, grimacing as he pulled the towel away.
"Damn, trap. Stick yourself with a hook while you were out fishing for a pretty face?"
"Only if you consider a spare scalpel a fish hook."
Hawkeye had moved them closer to the light, inspecting his friend's hand and looking for the source of blood. Wiping away at skin, he found a gash that started a couple of inches below Trapper's wrist and continued up the hand and toward the base of his thumb. Without any exchange between the two of them, he began to clean the wound and assess the damage. It was deep, but if it weren't for the length it would've been fine. Due to how long the cut was, it wouldn't stay closed by itself at any rate.
"It'll need sutures."
Trapper nodded. "Go ahead. Couldn't do it myself or I would've..." They met eyes over the bloodied hand. "Say, give me a lightning bolt, Doc. I've always wanted a cool scar."
Hawkeye retrieved the necessary items from his bag and set to work. He knew the drill. John hated being a patient, would argue against going anywhere else to stitch it up other than right there in the Swamp, and he wouldn't take the local anesthetic or pain meds. That was just the way he was. There was always something a little deeper to that, an explanation Pierce wasn't going to pry for. He had his guesses, and that was enough. The sutures were quick- hell, he could do five different sutures in his sleep. Four neatly placed and evenly-spread sutures were all he did, and then quickly bandaged the hand. Once he was done, he started cleaning up after himself.
"How'd that happen, exactly?"
"In the wonderful process of getting wonderfully handsy with a nurse, my hands found a not-so-wonderfully placed 20-blade someone had failed to put in a sharps container."
Hawkeye shook his head, munching an olive from a glass he'd finished off after dinner. "Always liked the ones with softer edges."
"Hmm."
Too awake to go to sleep and too tired to argue when Trapper plopped down beside him for a drink of his own, Hawkeye settled against his pillows and picked up a magazine. Frank was still gone- no argument there. Trapper slid to the floor and opened a deck of cards, playing silently beside Hawkeye's bed. His arm came to rest on the cot, the one he'd hurt. Hawkeye flipped to the next page in his magazine, deeply engrossed on an article that was really more picture-heavy than wordy. All about the medical dangers of wearing too much of a bathing suit while swimming. Very enlightening, to be sure. Movement beside him caught his eye- Trapper had his hand folded, absent-mindedly running his hand against the bandage.
"Now now, doctor, be a good patient or I'll have to get chinese handcuffs for each of your fingers." Hawkeye placed his hand over Trappers, shaking his head in mock disapproval.
"Sorry, just need more than one hand to practice a new trick."
"You mean a new cheat," Hawkeye amended. The surgeon beside him shrugged.
"It's a trick as long as the other person doesn't find out." He glanced at his hand, where Hawkeye's fingers were resting against his own. They were almost slotted together, and it only took a slight movement to make it that way. Hawkeye relished the warm fingers and the rough bandage beneath his own. Strong hands, a surgeons hands. Playful hands that could maneuver their way around a set of cards as well as stitch the life-blood back into a person's insides. Hawkeye rubbed his thumb to and fro across the tan skin, looking back down at his magazine.
"Still need your hand?"
"Not if it means you'll keep it for a while. Always knew I could do this one-handed. Lots of things I could learn to do one-handed. Eat, sleep, operate, unfasten a bra-" Hawkeye threw his head back laughing, cutting him off.
"I can't help you there!"
"I'm sure I can find someone to practice on." Trapper shot him a grin.
"Oh sure, sure. Klinger might be willing to- hey, oww!"
p.s. If anyone has requests for something, don't hesitate to let me know and I'll get right on it.
