A Moth to a Flame
Summary: He was poison. Pure poison. Attractive, charismatic, and a bit sociopathic. A force of nature personified. Destructive, undeniable, unstoppable. And like a moth to the flame that would immolate it, I couldn't stay away from him. (Slash: bisexual Hawkeye / OMC)
This work was significantly revised and expanded Oct. 2018.
Warning: this story is not your typical romance, in that it revolves around an emotionally abusive same-sex relationship. If this makes you uncomfortable you may want to find something else to read. There are also references to period-typical homophobia.
Set in Season 3 at some point after "Aid Station."
Rated M for language, themes, and suggestions. No explicit sex (sorry!).
Disclaimer: the custody battle is going poorly. They're still not mine. Damn.
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The Rock and a Hard Place
"Fancy seeing you here."
The all-too-familiar baritone cut savagely through my pleasant buzz and I suddenly found myself on my feet, wearing the martini I'd just had in my hand. My brain was still trying to figure out where the last couple of seconds had gone when a very appropriate line from Casablanca derailed my thoughts and Humphrey Bogart's voice echoed through my stunned mind: "Of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world..."
"Drew," I said dumbly, turning to face the man who'd just entered the Officer's Club. He was just as I'd remembered him, even after all these years: still boyishly cute, with a sweet, misleadingly honest-looking face, ruddy cheeks on fair skin that burned if he even considered spending five minutes in the sun, dark brown doe eyes that really had no business being on a man, and silky black hair that I'd once loved running my fingers through.
"It's good to see you," he said warmly with a crooked smile, sounding immensely relieved. "Nice to find a friendly face here on the welcome wagon."
"Or not so friendly," I warned him with a frown on my numb lips. I didn't think my lips were numb from the alcohol. The night was young – I'd only had four martinis. I think I may have been in shock. Let's see: cold, sweaty skin; rapid pulse, albeit pounding violently through my veins and in my ears rather than being weak and thready; irregular breathing; lightheadedness; anxiety. Yep, that was shock alright. I'm a doctor. I know these things.
His smile fell at my lack of enthusiasm. "Why don't we talk?" he suggested solemnly, jerking his head toward the door.
I stared him down coldly. "Why don't we not?" 'Talking' with Drew would be courting trouble, plain and simple. Instead I parked myself defiantly in the chair I'd just so abruptly vacated to emphasize my rebuttal and peeled the front of my gin-soaked khaki shirt away from my chest with a grimace. As much as I liked my martinis, I'd generally rather drink them than wear them. Not to mention my sudden and pressing need to stay away from open flame.
Drew flashed me a challengingly superior look complete with quirked eyebrow and boldly pulled up a seat beside me at the table I was sharing with Trapper and Henry.
"Have a seat," Trapper said sarcastically, waving a hand at the chair Drew had already claimed. "Take a load off."
"Don't mind if I do," Drew replied with a smirk. Settling back in his appropriated seat, he groaned, "God, I could use a drink."
"Well, we have those here," Henry told him with an uncertain quasi-smile, looking between us with a mix of wariness and puzzlement.
I found myself targeted by those big brown eyes. "You know you want to buy me a drink," Drew informed me beguilingly.
I stifled a laugh but was less successful in hiding the disdainful curl of my lips. Declining to reply, I instead moved on to a more critical subject.
"What are you doing here?" I demanded, trying to keep my tone bland and probably (definitely) failing. I sent a heartfelt prayer to a god I wasn't entirely sure existed that this man hadn't just been stationed at the 4077 permanently. Surely He or fate or whatever supernatural force tasked with mismanaging the cosmic elements of this war could not be that cruel.
Drew ignored me in turn. "Bartender—" He faltered at the unexpected sight of a hairy man in a sequined green evening gown wearing a tiara, then collected himself gamely. "One scotch on the rocks and one very dry martini." He pointed to me. "On his tab."
Klinger looked to me for confirmation as the newcomer ogled him from his high heels to his bejeweled crown, and I rolled my eyes. "Sure, why not. It was on my agenda for tonight anyway." I turned to Trapper and held out an invisible day planner. "See, under 8 p.m.: 'Buy a fink a scotch on the rocks.'" I turned back to Drew, cocked my head, and pinned him with an exasperated glare. "So kind of the Army to provide a new fink to the 4077 for this very occasion."
"Aww, you missed me!" Drew crooned with a bright smile, reaching over to clap an overly-friendly hand on my shoulder. I leaned away from his touch, eyeing his hand as if it was a particularly repulsive spider that didn't have the good grace to be sitting on the floor where I could step on it, all the while trying not to think about how that smile had always made me melt inside.
I narrowed my eyes at the jerk instead. "I missed lancing boils. I missed treating 80-year-old hemorrhoids. I missed spending sleepless nights working on my dissertation. I missed hangovers – though not very often, recently," I amended honestly. "But I have not missed you." Yeah, okay, so that was a lie. But it was one that I had to hold on to. Drew had taught me a number of lessons – very few of them pleasant – and I'd learned them well. I didn't plan on letting history repeat itself.
Unfortunately life was unimpressed by the plans of a mere mortal such as I and elected to follow its own warped agenda. Well, that, or I had absolutely no self-control when it came to that man. Self-control was an over-valued commodity anyway, right? Regardless, for my pride's sake I decided to call it something along the lines of fate and leave it at that.
Trapper chose that moment to butt in, bless his heart. "Ah, I don't believe we've been introduced. Drew, is it?"
"Andrew," Drew corrected with studied politeness, extending his hand across the table toward Trapper. The right to use his pet name had always been reserved solely for me. "Andrew Kenna. Corporal Kenna, actually," he added with a grimace. It seemed that he was still trying to get used to the fact that he was in the military now. Something told me that he, too, had been shanghaied by the United States' draft board and press-ganged into service. He wasn't exactly one of life's eager volunteers. If there wasn't something in it for him, it was safe to say he wasn't interested. I doubted that the Army had offered him anything remotely enticing besides an alternative to splitting rocks at Leavenworth for years.
Trapper's eyes flicked between the two of us as they shook hands. "Trapper." He mimicked Drew's introduction, tongue in cheek. "Trapper John McIntyre. Captain McIntyre, actually."
I smirked. Two minutes into their meeting and Trap was already mocking the guy. Perhaps he'd picked up on the subtle tension between us. Regardless of the reason, I wholeheartedly approved.
"Welcome to the 4077," Henry said in a reserved tone, also taking Drew's outstretched hand. "Henry Blake. I'm the C.O. here." He continued to switch his gaze between me and Drew uncertainly. "You in town for long?" he asked as he settled back in his chair, perfunctory handshake complete. I wondered if Henry was calculating the potential for collateral damage. The fallout from the meeting could very well be more severe than he could reasonably anticipate.
"As much as I wish I could say no," Drew said glumly as he eyed me appraisingly, "it seems that I'll be stuck here a while."
I bared my teeth in a mockery of a grin as a sinking sensation took root in my stomach. "Oh, goody! I'll break out the party decorations. We throw parties around here like you wouldn't believe. You'll be under the table in no time." I sincerely hoped that someone would step on him. One eager volunteer sprang to mind immediately.
Despite my banter I didn't move, unless you counted the spasming muscle in my jaw from my tightly clenched teeth.
Drew ignored the retort that likely hadn't really managed to mask my discomfort. "Quite a charming place you have, I must say," he said to our group at large. He managed to sound genuine. He was always good at that.
Klinger approached with our drinks at that point, giving me a moment's reprieve to process the disturbing news. The corporal's voice, followed by Henry's and Trapper's, added themselves to the background noise of my brain's panicked gibbering. I was floored, and not in a good way. It was bad enough that I was stationed here in this armpit of the universe stitching up dying kids on a never-ending conveyer belt. But to be stuck here with him? I must have done something positively horrific in a past life. Instead of coming back as a claustrophobic snail, though, I got trapped in this hell-on-earth with my ex-boyfriend. Somebody up there must've really had it in for me.
I drained my not-so-impressively-dry martini in one long swig while Drew watched with dark amusement out of the corner of his eye. He considered his glass for a brief moment before following suit. Setting it down on the table with a thud, he extricated himself from the conversation that had been going on without me, snared my bicep, and stood, hauling me up with him.
"Why don't we take a walk?" He didn't wait for an answer. "It was nice meeting you," he told Trapper and Henry smoothly, pulling me away from the table before they had an opportunity to reply. I elected to walk with him rather than be dragged out in front of the crowd. I was going outside with him whether I wanted to or not; I might as well retain my dignity.
I heard a chair scoot back and guessed (correctly) that Trapper had come to his feet. "Hawk." I heard my friend's voice – an inflectionless question – when I was halfway to the door. He was asking if I was okay – if I needed backup.
I sent him an extremely faked reassuring smile over my shoulder. "I'll catch you in a little bit." Unspoken, but understood, was a 'Thanks for your concern, anyway.' "If I'm not back in five hours, call the M.P.s," I added jokingly. Trapper's wry grin looked a little forced at that.
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"Is there a place we can talk?"
Drew's question seemed innocent enough, but I think we both knew what was going to happen as I led him to the creek for a private chat. Regardless of the circumstances, our 'talks' always had a way of devolving into passionate sex. Mind-blowingly amazing sex. And very little actual conversation.
I felt an intense gaze on my back for the duration of the quiet walk, and as soon as I had a seat on the smooth boulder by the creek bed he was on me. There was no exchange of feelings, no 'I missed you, how've you been?' His lips claimed mine in impassioned silence and his hands slipped under my shirt to run over my torso. I initially melted into the kiss, caught off-guard by a barrage of countless memories of bliss and ecstasy, before my higher thought process bitch-slapped my libido into submission.
"Drew," I said against his questing lips. I pulled my head back, but he followed. "Wait." I released my grip on his hips, previously holding him close – when and how had that happened, anyway? – to place my hands on his shoulders, pushing him away. "We were going to talk, remember?" My eyes unconsciously roamed his face, mapping it anew. The irises of his big brown eyes looked almost black in the dusk's fading light. I couldn't stop myself from running my thumb lightly over his angular jaw and sharp cheekbones. He was clean-shaven. That was new. I wondered if his signature thin mustache and short-clipped goatee would make a reappearance now that he was out of the Army's slipshod wartime version of basic training.
Drew brushed off my gentle touch and leaned in to run his lips across my jaw and down my neck, feathering my skin with electrifyingly-light kisses. The sensation of his effeminately long lashes tickling my shoulder had my eyes fluttering shut.
"Talking's overrated," he mumbled into my collarbone.
The vast majority of my brain was in complete agreement with that statement, but that stubborn voice of reason fought gamely against the tide of passion. "We can't do this," I gasped huskily. My hands on his shoulders that were supposed to be pushing him away now held him in place, torn between their directives and the desire to press his body to mine.
"From where I'm standing it looks like we are." He was actually closer to horizontal than standing, having pushed my upper body back onto the hard, uneven surface of the boulder until I was lying flat on my back, legs dangling off the edge of the rock and toes barely scraping the ground.
"Drew, stop," I said more firmly. We had things to discuss. What a dick he'd been to me and how I was not getting entrapped again topped my list of subjects.
He sighed in frustration. I felt his erection pressing against my thigh as he stopped ravishing my clavicle and snuggled his face into the crook of my neck. "Alright," he grumbled, voice muffled and lips lightly brushing my skin. "I'm stopping. Now what?"
I slowly sat up, pushing him vertical. He had a seat beside me and my traitorous arms wrapped around his shoulders, pulling his upper body against mine. Ignoring the warning sirens sounding in my head, I pressed my cheek to his, eyes closing as I breathed in his still-familiar scent. I hadn't realized how much I'd missed this.
"I hate you," I said with a complete lack of conviction. Where had that useful animosity disappeared to? Without my previous anger and resentment I was fast losing the capability to maintain a safe distance from this man. Hell, who was I kidding? That ability had gone A.W.O.L. the instant we'd reached the rock.
"I can tell," he replied with a deep chuckle that vibrated my chest.
I finally managed to get my arms to release him, pressing my mutinous hands to the cool rock beneath me in an attempt to make them behave. I took a deep breath, but that fluttering in my torso – part exasperation, part excitement – stubbornly lingered. "We can't do this," I repeated.
"Do what?" he asked innocently. "We're not doing anything."
"I mean, us," I said eloquently. "It won't work. It never works." I wouldn't let myself get sucked in again. I couldn't.
We'd had a two-year-long, intense, highly volatile on-again off-again relationship when we were sharing a dorm room in undergrad together, before he flunked out at the end of our sophomore year. I'd been pre-med; he was a physics major with aspirations to become a nuclear physicist. He could have done it, too. He was quite brilliant. It was too bad for his academic career that he spent so much of his time and energy manipulating his way through Androscoggin College's student body. If he'd had half the drive and discipline for his studies that he'd had for sex, booze, and machinations he could have been working on ways to drop bigger and better nukes on unsuspecting civilians instead of being drafted as an enlisted peon and shipped overseas to his ex's MASH outfit.
I had certainly never expected to see him again, and after my feelings for him had been violently squelched into a locked box in a purposefully neglected corner of my mind I'd counted myself lucky. The man was poison. Pure poison. No, he wasn't a complete sociopath, but he certainly had strong sociopathic tendencies. Between his cute, boy-next-door looks, his intelligence, and his charisma, he could entrap the best of us. And he had: me.
I'd seen how he was, of course. I wasn't blind. I'd known that we weren't in a particularly healthy relationship, but I'd been unable to permanently break it off while we were living together in that dorm room. Emotionally distancing yourself from someone is difficult to do when forced to cohabit with them in a space the approximate size of a sardine can, and after the end of our freshman year I never did get around to request a housing reassignment (for reasons I didn't really care to examine too closely). Which could make this situation problematic. MASH 4077 wasn't the biggest outpost in Korea, and it certainly wasn't the easiest place to avoid someone. Especially someone that some insidious part of your subconscious still had feelings for. And no matter how hard I wished it wasn't so, those feelings consisted of more than just anger and wariness.
"Okay, that's fine," Drew agreed, far too amenably. "There's no 'us.' But a little sex never hurt anyone, right?"
'A little sex.' Just sex. Sure. I could do just sex, right? I did it all the time.
Why did I have a sneaking suspicion that this time would be different?
Before I had the opportunity to pursue that line of thought he put his hand behind my head, gently fisting my hair in his fingers and pulling me toward him, and nipped lightly at my earlobe. All rational thought left my brain and the majority of the blood in my body rushed south. Damn him. He knew that drove me nuts. I heard a few muffled moans and realized belatedly that they were escaping my closed lips. I felt myself being sandwiched between the cool boulder beneath me and the warm body on top and knew that I had to apply the brakes posthaste, but I couldn't even form a coherent sentence.
Ah, fuck it. We could talk later.
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Silence is a writer's worst enemy. Constructive criticism is welcome. Reviews really make my day.
