A/N: Mature content and sexual themes throughout (and rated accordingly). In the interests of keeping this instalment accessible to more readers (I know not everybody likes smut), I have limited the full/heavy sex scenes to the latter sections of chapters 1 and 5, and tried to keep them relatively non-graphic. However, due to the theme of the fic, all chapters include some sexual content and/or references.

Winter 1957

Trapper stirred, shifting reluctantly from peaceful dozing to full wakefulness. His eyes flickered open, and a messy head of jet black hair streaked with grey came into focus.

The sun was already up, its weak December rays already penetrating the flimsy, age-worn drapes that hung in the windows of their miserable little bedroom. Given the time of year, that was a fair indicator that they'd slept most of the day away…

'Not enough…'

No sooner had Trapper made a move to rouse himself, than the figure beside him stirred, and two cold, skinny arms snaked around his torso. Trapper resisted the urge to pull away.

"Morning, sugar." The words were breathed in his ear without much of a pretence at disguising their seductive intent. A moment later, the lips that had uttered them began peppering little butterfly kisses down the side of his neck.

"What do you want?"

Trapper hadn't intended to sound so grumpy – he'd actually been aiming for something casually indifferent or maybe even playful– but the sigh of annoyance that escaped him soon put pay to that.

Trapper's tone, despite his intentions, reeked of sarcasm and anger. The embrace came to a swift end, as Hawkeye pulled away and flopped onto his back, scowling at the ceiling. "Oh, well, that's nice! Merry Christmas to you too!" He thumped his pillow and turned away to scowl at the wall instead, thrusting two bony shoulder blades in Trapper's direction.

Trapper felt a stab of guilt. It had been six weeks now. Six weeks since Hawkeye had made a disastrous attempt at persuading Louise to grant him more regular access to his children. Six weeks since his ex-wife had finally declared that, thanks to his partner's appalling conduct, John McIntyre would no longer have visitation rights. Six weeks since he had found himself faced with the prospect that he would never see his daughters ever again. And almost as long since he had been presented with the legal documentation that declared that prospect to be a cold, hard reality.

And now, faced with his first Christmas away from the children he adored so much, his foul mood didn't show any sign of lifting.

And yet, here was Hawkeye angling for some action…

Trapper tried very, very hard to be patient. "Hawkeye?" His words were soft and calm, but spoken through slightly gritted teeth. "It's nothin' personal, but I really ain't in the mood."

Something between a hiss and a sigh came from Hawkeye's side of the bed as, with some effort, he calmed himself mid-strop, smoothing his pillow out from the twisted lump into which he had pummelled it. "And who said I was? Did an explicit request for a half hour of heavy breathing pass my lips?"

Trapper burrowed deeper under the blankets. "I know a hint when I get it…"

"Don't flatter yourself!" Hawkeye huffed, crawling back into his usual spot just beside Trapper and staring up the ceiling.

"Then what were ya doin'?"

"I was kissing you! It's a quaint little custom we have back in Maine, I'm surprised you hadn't noticed it until now."

Trapper scowled. "Well, knock it off."

"It's Christmas, for God's sake! Forgive me if I was trying to make it a little special!"

Snorting, Trapper slumped onto his back, studying the patch of mildew on the ceiling that seemed to grow with each passing week. "What's so special about it? Ain't neither of us workin'. Ain't got two cents to rub together. Hell, we can't even afford a tree! An' all I can think right now is that there are two little girls out there spendin' Christmas without their father!"

Hawkeye fell silent. He had nothing to offer in the face of this. They'd been through it enough times, and apologising just seemed to make Trapper yell more. Hawkeye didn't feel like being yelled at – not on Christmas morning – so, for one of the rare times in his life, he stayed silent.

A silent Hawkeye, however, was a worrying thing to the man who lived with his incessant gabbing, day in and day out. Trapper turned. He found Hawkeye contemplating his navel, worrying at his thumb with his teeth.

Sensing an audience, Hawkeye's hand dropped to his lap and he glanced over. "How much longer are you planning on punishing me? I mean, just a ball park, so I can mark the days off on the wall of my dog house."

Trapper winced. Hawkeye wasn't stupid, and yet somehow he kept thinking he could fool him.

Trapper had dwelled on the issue for some time. He'd had plenty of time to dwell: he'd been fired from his latest job stacking shelves in a supermarket after he'd thrown baby formula at a customer (a dumb, arrogant son of a bitch who didn't seem to know a damned thing about parenting and should never, in Trapper's eyes, have been allowed to have kids in the first place). Sitting in the bar just round the corner from his former employer's store, Trapper had run over his litany time and time again: that Louise would have found an excuse sooner or later; that he mustn't be angry with Hawkeye; couldn't be angry with Hawkeye.

And so, with his feelings safely buried, he'd been short, snippy, bad-tempered, withdrawn, unaffectionate and rude to him instead. But never angry.

Without looking him in the eye, Trapper stared down at the blankets and mumbled the words he knew Hawkeye needed to hear: "It ain't your fault, Hawk." The words were calm, evenly spoken, but never quite sincere. No matter how many times he had spoken them, Trapper could never quite feel them. Maybe that would come in time.

Hawkeye sighed, gazing up at the ceiling in the hope of keeping his eyes from watering. "Then how come I keep feeling like it is?"

Trapper snorted. The phrase 'guilty conscience' fluttered across his mind before he could stop it. He kept his mouth shut.

In the absence of a response, Hawkeye sighed. "So, are we going to get up, or are you sleeping in 'til New Year?"

"I'm gonna get a bit more sack time, if that's okay."

The disappointed grumble suggested that it wasn't, but Hawkeye said nothing.

As he pushed himself up from the pillows, Trapper reached over and rested a gentle hand on his arm. It was the nearest he'd got to an affectionate gesture in weeks. "Hey. Sorry if I ain't exactly a bundle of fun lately. It'll get better. I promise."

Hawkeye's lip twitched into a pathetic attempt at a smile. "Okay."

He leaned over and gave Trapper a little peck of a kiss – one more tiny step back to normality – and swung his legs out from under the blankets. Trapper wasted no time in cocooning himself as soon as he had them all to himself, rolling himself up in the bedding like a giant silkworm. He faintly heard Hawkeye roll out of bed and start rummaging about on the bedroom floor for his clothes, but was already asleep again before he was finished.

"Hey."

Trapper awoke to a gentle shaking from Hawkeye, and a smell of food wafting through from the kitchen. His stomach lurched a little in that uncomfortable way it always used to when he was on call at the hospital and the phone rang – shift work never agreed with him – and brought with it the sickening reminder of all the years of hard graft he'd invested in a career he had no hope of re-entering. He grumbled as he struggled to get his bearings, opening his eyes to find Hawkeye leaning over him. "What do you want?"

Hawkeye was lingering at his bedside, wrapped in his old black robe. "I made dinner." His voice was unusually quiet, tentative, and almost pitifully hopeful. "Do you want to come through and eat?"

Trapper rolled away from him and stared at the ceiling. "Not really."

Sighing, Hawkeye sat on the side of the bed, resting heavily on his elbows. "Well, do you think maybe you could do it anyway, so I don't have to spend Christmas Day by myself in an empty apartment? I mean, not that I don't love my own company, but it takes two people to pull the crackers, and my collection of dumb jokes is running low."

"Thank the lord for small mercies…" Trapper immediately regretted the comment when he saw the look on Hawkeye's face, and, as if hoping to ease any offence, he gave him a weak smile to show he didn't mean it. "Fine. I'll be with ya as soon as I haul my sorry ass out of this pit."

"Don't be too long. I have a surprise for you. Might cheer you up a little." Hawkeye slipped away, returning to whatever surprise festivities he had planned.

But Trapper didn't feel in the slightest bit festive. His whole body felt heavy as he dragged himself out of bed, scrambled through his drawers for a pair of pants and a shirt and sweater – not the ridiculous Rudolph one Hawkeye had bought him a couple of years ago – and tried to put on a happy face besides as he exited the bedroom and went to face the world.

The sight that greeted him made him stop dead in the doorway. Hawkeye had toilet-papered the living room! In the absence of a tree or garlands or anything else, he had strewn the rafters of their loft with the stuff! The old wood burner had a decent fire going in it for the first time in its life, and the coffee table was placed in front of it, carefully laid with plates and silverware, and with a bottle of wine. Hawkeye stood in the midst of his festive creation, smiling proudly, and wearing a tuxedo, a yellow party hat, and slipper-socks.

To Trapper, in his current mood, it was the most ridiculous, inappropriate display he'd ever seen. "What in the heck are you dressed like that for?"

Hawkeye's smile vanished.

Trapper jabbed a finger towards the toilet paper hanging from the rafters. "You realise we just gotta clean all this up tomorrow?"

Hawkeye shoulders slumped and he looked away. "I just thought…"

"You thought? There was thought involved in this?! What did ya think, Hawk? You thought you'd put on a tux an' toilet-paper the livin' room, an' I'd suddenly feel full o' the joys of the season?" He snorted, and Hawkeye stared at his socks. "Take that off, Hawk. Ya look like a moron. Dressed for a goddamn black-tie soiree an' we're livin' in a mould-infested attic!"

The insult hung in the air as a heavy silence stretched out. The electronic buzz of the kitchen timer broke it. Hawkeye looked up. "That'll be our Christmas dinner." With those quiet words, he whipped his hat off, sank dejectedly onto the cushions he'd laid out beside the coffee table in the warm glow of the fireplace, and began gnawing at his thumb-nail, eyes downcast, long limbs folded in as if to shield himself.

And Trapper suddenly wanted the ground to swallow him up. He turned away, his face flushing, feeling hideously embarrassed by his own foul temper. What a Scrooge he was! Where had that all come from? Struggling to find the words to apologise, he floundered for a moment, mouth opening and closing helplessly, but any attempt to make amends caught in his throat. He felt like somebody had let all the air out of him!

Hoping to redeem himself by making himself useful, he shuffled off to the kitchen to retrieve the meal Hawkeye had prepared for them.

The oven hit him in the face with a wave of hot air, and he squinted as he reached into the darkness with one grubby pot-holder. He withdrew a baking tray, upon which was perched a sad little cuboid of roasted meat. "Ya made meatloaf?"

Without looking over, Hawkeye shrugged. "Three bird roast," he muttered in the direction of the fireplace. "It's like turducken only cheaper. It was on sale in the store a couple of days ago. Don't get too excited – it's probably all spleens and eyeballs."

Trapper's wave of guilt turned into a tsunami. How long had Hawkeye been planning all this? Their modest selection of decent china – mostly gifts from Daniel and heirlooms from Hawkeye's family – sat stacked on the counter beside the stove, and a little sprig of holly had been clipped from its parent tree and sat waiting on the serving dish.

Trapper set to work.

A moment later, Hawkeye was stirred from his fireside vigil when Trapper approached the little nest he'd made.

"Hey?"

Hawkeye looked up.

Trapper was standing over him, their dinner lovingly presented on their best serving plate, the sprig of holly perched neatly on top. The look on his face was almost pathetic.

Hawkeye blinked at him curiously. "Is this some sort of peace offering?"

"It's a 'sorry I'm such a miserable jerk' offering."

Hawkeye's gaze flickered to the holly, and then back up to Trapper. "As offerings go, it's a pretty good judge of character."

Trapper nodded. "Touché." He gave a meek, contrite smile. "An' I just wanna say, I know why ya did all this, an' even though I think it's dumb, I think it's real sweet of you."

At last, Hawkeye nodded in the direction of the cushions opposite him. "Come on, you big lug. You're letting the Christmas meatloaf get cold."

Nothing more was said. Trapper sank onto the cushions and placed their meal on the table. The tangled mess of emotions that had been festering in his gut all day, prompting him to snap at Hawkeye as he had done, was still far beyond his capability to unravel. And, until he could put it all neatly into words, that would have to do. Much remained unsaid, and the smile he gave Hawkeye felt slightly forced. "So uh…. are you carving this… turducken roast or whatever you said it was?"

Hawkeye laughed, and brandished his carving knife with a smile. "What do you want? Spleen or eyeball?"

The three bird roast went down beautifully, as did the wine. The second bottle was now well on the way to joining it. A more relaxed Trapper now lounged beside a happier Hawkeye as they polished off a not-so-traditional dessert of supermarket-brand ice cream. Nicely drunk and full of sugar, Trapper watched as Hawkeye gingerly tossed another log into the fire, flinching as the embers sparked and flew.

"Alright," Trapper announced gleefully, pouring the last of the wine into his glass. "Favourite Christmas memory. Go."

Hawkeye flopped back onto the cushions. "Oh, now you're asking! I'm not so sure I can narrow it down to one!" Hawkeye picked up his glass and stared thoughtfully into the contents. He snorted. "Not the one we spent in Korea, that's for sure."

Trapper made a face and pressed a hand to his chest as if wounded. "Aw, our first Christmas together! An' I thought it was somethin' special…"

Hawkeye gulped some wine and gave a satisfied sigh. "We weren't together then. It doesn't count. I was still pining for you, all lovelorn and unrequited."

Trapper laughed. "Lovelorn my ass! You were datin' Nurse Anderson and Nurse Bannerman that winter!"

A look of surprise flickered across Hawkeye's face – he had no idea Trapper had even noticed – followed quickly by a lecherous smile. "Ah yes, Becky and Barbara! You know, maybe Korea was my favourite Christmas!"

"It better not be!" Trapper growled into his wine glass, but his eyes twinkled with playful glee. "I ain't about to compete with two nurses! Not unless it's mud-wrestlin'!"

"Jealous?"

"A little." Trapper smirked and quirked an eyebrow. "Lieutenant Anderson was somethin' else!"

Hawkeye snorted and shot him a dirty look. "Yeah, but Bannerman was a demon in the bedroom!"

"I remember."

"Wait… what? You screwed Bannerman?"

"No, but you did! In our shared quarters! Remember? I was in the next cot over, less than four feet away – you figured I was sleepin'!"

"Oh, yeah…" Hawkeye gave a wistful smile.

"That was some radio show. I had a hard-on for nearly half an hour…"

Hawkeye cackled with laughter, rolling around in the cushions.

Trapper settled down beside him, stretched out across the floor, trying not to think on how peculiar their intertwined histories were. "Come on, spill."

Sitting back up again and gnawing thoughtfully on a thumbnail, Hawkeye thought on it. "Favourite Christmas memory… let me see." He thought, and Trapper continued to knock his drink back. "Okay, I've got it. But… this might sound kind of nuts at first."

Trapper snorted with laughter again. "You? Nuts? Benjamin Franklin Pierce? The man who walked into a crowded mess tent stark naked for a bet? The man who ordered takeout halfway around the world from some place in Chicago he didn't even have the number for? The man who puts up with yours-truly on a daily basis for no fee save what I can give you in kisses?"

"Who said there was no fee? I'm mailing you the check just as soon as you leave!"

Another laugh. "Tell the story Hawk."

"Okay. Well… I guess it's not really the best memory, but… it was the first Christmas after my mom died."

Trapper looked at him curiously. "Go on…"

Hawkeye took a deep breath, exhaling it in a long sigh. Staring, misty-eyed, into the fireplace, he began: "It was such a strange holiday. I hadn't really expected anything. The house had just felt miserable since Mom passed away. My birthday came and went, and dad… forgot. I was eleven years old, and I think I honestly thought that we would just… stop doing Christmas now Mom wasn't around. She was always the life and soul of the party, and dad was… well, you know how he is. She'd decorate the house and dress the tree, and then, every Christmas morning I'd wake up and there'd be a stocking full of presents at the foot of my bed. I'd grab 'em all, and run through to my parents' room, burrow down in the bed between them, and sit and unwrap every one before the sun was even up!"

Trapper chuckled, but couldn't help but feel a little envious. As a child, his meagre stash of gifts had remained under the tree until after the festive ritual of dinner and the trip to church had been completed. The McIntyres were a sedate, formal kind of family, a far cry from the joyous chaos that seemed to govern the Pierce household.

Hawkeye continued: "After we lost Mom, there was nobody to do all those things. Dad was working, my aunts all had their own families, so it was just us." As he spoke, Hawkeye hugged his knees to his chest, transforming almost physically into the little boy whose life he was describing. "I remember he brought this tree in from the woods, but it sat in the porch all week before he found the time to pot it and stand it up in the living room. And then it just… sat there. We had this naked tree in the window for days! It was the saddest thing I'd ever seen. I used to sit and stare at it every morning while I ate my oatmeal, wondering who was going to dress it now Mom was gone. Then I got out of school on the last day, and I climbed up into the attic and I got the boxes down myself. And I covered that tree in lights and baubles and garlands, everything we owned, it all went up."

Trapper beamed at the thought of little Hawkeye, determinedly decorating his tree. "That sounds neat."

Hawkeye chuckled. "It wasn't. I was too short to reach the top, and I didn't think to do the back at all. It looked terrible, and I don't think dad even noticed it until…" Another laugh, and a sweet, impish grin. "Christmas Eve, we were having dinner, and there was this crash in the living room… and there it was: our Christmas tree, lying on its side across the coffee table. Pine needles everywhere, broken glass – and some of those baubles were heirlooms. He was mad – you don't see my dad get mad, but he was mad. I tried to help, picking my way through the debris, but my dad wouldn't have it. 'Get upstairs!' he told me. 'Get upstairs and go to bed!' That morning, I woke up… and there was no stocking at the foot of my bed. No presents. No tree because I'd ruined it, and no dad calling me through, because he was still angry." He toyed with his empty glass, his brow creased, eyes downcast. "I thought… that was it. No more Christmas. Christmas must be something moms took care of, and since I didn't have one any more, that was it for me."

"Christ, Hawk…"

"So I didn't go running through into dad's room. I just lay there. I lay there and cried and I missed Mom like crazy." A glimmer of a smile crossed his face, and his tone changed. "Then, my dad came in. And he looked like he'd been crying – and if there's anything my dad does even less than getting mad, it's crying – and that was when I realised… just how hard this had been for him. That it wasn't just about the time or the money: it was that taking over from Mom meant facing the fact that she'd really gone, you know? And I don't think he could face that. But… he had this bag with him – this little canvas thing they sold at the craft store – and he sat on my bed, like he wasn't sure what to say. He was never good at apologies, and in the end he just… started handing me these gifts. It wasn't much, to tell you the truth. But… he'd tried." Hawkeye's eyes glistened as he told the story. "And you could see in his face how sorry he was that he hadn't been able to make Christmas the same as it used to be, but… how could he, you know? The money wasn't there, he had to work, and he was still mourning his wife. Mom was gone, and decorating the tree and hanging tinsel from the rafters wasn't about to bring her back."

Gently, Trapper reached out and placed a hand on Hawkeye's arm.

"That Christmas wasn't the greatest, but, I guess it's one of my favourites. It meant the world to me that, in the middle of everything he was going through, my dad had gone out and tried to make the best of it. But the last present… that was what did it."

"What was it?"

Hawkeye grinned. "Mom had this tradition," he explained, "after my baby sister died. Every Christmas, I'd get this little handmade thing in my stocking – knitted, like a doll or a bear or a scarf or something – and Mom always labelled it from her. For a couple of years I genuinely thought Heaven ran a postal service, shipping out arts and crafts from dead relatives. Of course, eventually I'd figured out my mom was the one making them, but… it was just this thing we did." He gestured animatedly, feeling a little foolish. But Trapper just smiled, and Hawkeye went on: "So, at the bottom of the bag, there was… this thing. I think it was a glove, but I figured its father was a mitten, because it had to be some sort of hybrid. My mother must have started it, and then my father – who could barely knit a stitch – had finished it off." He giggled at the memory, wiping his eyes on the back of his wrist even as he shook with laughter. "It was the lousiest thing I'd ever seen! Stiches dropped all over the place, loose threads hanging off it, and I think it was missing a finger. But it was perfect. And at that moment, I had never felt so grateful to my dad before. Maybe we're not the best at talking about the important things, but God knows he tries. And that… sorry little glove summed up our family so well on that day: Mom was gone, and nothing we could do would ever fill that hole she left. We were an incomplete, broken, messy little family, trying our best to carry on without her. We would drop our stitches and leave our threads dangling, and she wouldn't be there any more to fix it, but, somehow, we would carry on – imperfect in our own unique way. And we would survive."

Trapper swallowed hard, blinking back tears. "Wow," he managed to utter, choking up. "C'mere." With shaking hands, he gestured to Hawkeye to move closer, and wrapped him in his arms, holding him tightly. Hawkeye's head found its usual resting place against his shoulder.

"What about you?" Hawkeye asked, his toes nudging the coffee table a little further away to make room for his long, gangly legs to sprawl. "What's your best Christmas memory?"

Thinking on it, Trapper fell silent, and paused to remove a shred of turducken from his teeth and take another swig of wine. He wanted desperately to be able to tell Hawkeye that it was one they had spent together, but… their seasonal celebrations had never been great. Either plagued by the perils of war in Korea or poverty and isolation in Boston. They'd spent last Christmas homeless, sleeping in the car, and before that shivering a rented room with no heat. One year they had attempted to drive to Maine to visit Hawkeye's father, but a random stop by a bored police officer had ended badly when Hawkeye's mouth ran away with him. They had arrived in Maine bereft of their cash reserves, and with Trapper nursing a broken arm…

Christmas in the Pierce-McIntyre household had slowly become an occasion to be dreaded rather than celebrated. Every year, there were expenses they couldn't afford, trips they couldn't face, risks they weren't prepared to take. And every year, Trapper had saved and saved to afford decent gifts for his girls, but every year his efforts were met with ill-concealed disappointment. He couldn't compete with the elaborate toys and fashionable clothes that were flooding in from Louise's side of the family and her new, wealthy second husband…

He pushed those thoughts back, swallowing the lump in his throat. "I think," he said at last, his fingers toying with the stem of his glass, "the first Christmas after Kathy was born."

He paused, pretending not to see the way Hawkeye flinched almost imperceptibly at the mere mention of Trapper's daughters, the way his lips tightened, his mouth drawn into a thin line as he ducked his head and stared at the carpet as if ashamed.

Coasting through the awkwardness, Trapper sighed, and set his glass down. "December, 1946. I was up to my eyeballs in my residency, workin' crazy hours, pay was lousy, 'specially when there's two kids to feed. Louise wanted to get these family portraits done in this fancy department store where all her friends shopped. They print 'em up an' you send 'em out as Christmas cards."

"Sounds nauseating." Hawkeye snorted and poured himself a fresh glass, relaxing a little once again and trying to lighten the tone with some humour. He didn't get city people, sometimes. When he was a kid, he used to make the Pierce family Christmas cards, perched at the kitchen table all weekend becoming more and more coated in pine needles and glitter.

"Yeah, it kinda was," Trapper admitted with a smirk. "They had this mock livin' room made up in the store, with a tree an' everythin', an you stood in front of it, pretendin' it was your house – like everybody in Boston had the same wallpaper or somethin'! But it was what Louise wanted, so…" He picked up his glass and gestured with it, before holding it out for a refill. Hawkeye obliged him. "Anyway, I was workin' right up until Christmas, an' time's runnin' out to get these pictures done. I got Louise mouthin' off at me to get my ass to the department store, I got my boss pushin' me to work overtime, an' there's a screamin' baby an' a pissed off toddler in the house! Life was crazy!"

"I bet!" Hawkeye poured the wine, draining the bottle.

"So, I finally get to leave the hospital a little early. I go to meet Louise an' the girls at the store, an' it's the last day they're doin' these pictures! It's snowin' out, and the Christmas shoppers are everywhere!"

"Those pesky Christmas shoppers! Why can't they wait until springtime when the weather's better?"

"I couldn't find a parkin' space, then I couldn't find the store, an' when I finally got there…" His voice shook with laughter, and he leaned back against the couch, grinning broadly. "Louise was standin' in the snow, wearin' this dress she'd been savin' for best, an' her best heels, an' both the girls done up in their prettiest dresses. An' they'd been there for forty minutes waitin' for me! Kathy was screamin', Becky was turnin' blue an' pullin' the ribbons outta her hair, an' Louise is filthy from haulin' the girls through the snow! An' she's waggin' her finger at me, remindin' me more an' more of my mother..."

"Oh, there's Freudian!"

"So, the store's gonna close in twenty minutes, right? An' we go runnin' through the place, two pissed off kids in tow, an' we find this photo place she's been yammerin' on about. The guy's packin' up already, but Louise begs him to do our picture. An' he looks at us – me still in my work gear, her with her dirty shoes, an' two red-faced little girls hangin' off us, screamin' to go home already – an' I think he takes pity on us or somethin'. So he picks his camera back up, an' he says, 'Okay. Are you ready?' An' I just laugh. We've never been less ready in our lives! Becky's tryin'a do her own pigtails, wipin' snot on the back of her sleeve, an Kathy's bawlin' her head off an turnin' purple, an' I just can't stop laughin'! Louise looks at me like she's about to skin me alive! An' then, right then, that… cheeky son of a bitch takes the picture! The flash goes off, the camera clicks, an' bold as brass, he holds out his hand an' says, 'Two dollars please.'"

Hawkeye cackled, rocking back on his cushions, nearly spilling his wine.

"I swear to God, Hawk, it was the best family picture we ever had! Kathy's howlin', her little face all twisted up like a cartoon; Becky's sulky as hell because she's managed to get one pigtail halfway up her head an' the other fallin' out, an' her nose is runnin'; I'm still wearin' my doctor's coat with my tie slung halfway down my chest; an' Louise is covered in the finest Boston slush and glarin' up at me like she wants me to drop dead. It was beautiful. We got the picture through in the mail, she never sent out a single card, an' I kept the original in a frame in my office. Without exception, best Christmas portrait ever."

Hawkeye smiled warmly. "Trapper, that sounds fantastic."

"I've still got it." Trapper thumbed in the direction of the bedroom. "It's the most ridiculous thing we ever did, an' I love it. Because… that was us, you know. We were this young family, tryin'a make our lives work around my job an' two babies! Okay, it wasn't the picture-perfect family Louise wanted to show her friends, but it was honest. An' it showed just how hard it was to keep things together when we were dealin' with all that! But we did it."

Hawkeye squeezed his arm, his earlier unease gone as a warm, affectionate glow. "I'm sure you did an amazing job."

Trapper tilted his gaze to his glass, staring into the liquid as he swirled it gently in his hand. "We weren't half bad. We were better parents than we were partners, I'll give her that. I think the girls were what kept us going. Sometimes I think…" He paused, unsure if he should share his next thought. "I think," he admitted at last, "if things had been different, we probably would'a had another baby once I got back from Korea just to try an' hold things together. Is that an awful thing to do, d'ya think?"

Stretching out on the cushions beside him, Hawkeye shrugged. "I'm not in any position to judge." He leaned closer, resting his head gently on Trapper's arm.

"Hmm. I s'pose not. God, I love kids though! Watchin' 'em grow, seein' the way they look atcha…"

Hawkeye heard Trapper's voice crack. Then he heard the sniffle, and the shuddering sigh as he swallowed his words. He turned over, gently wrapping an arm around him as he watched the emotion flicker across his face. "You know," he tried gently, "you can talk about…"

But Trapper shook his head. Whatever further thoughts he had, he was keeping to himself.

Hawkeye dropped the subject. He squeezed him tighter, neither one saying a word.

They sat like that for a while, only just noticing that the sky outside their windows had already darkened to night, and that the only light bathing them was the orange glow of the fire.

"Hey. I got you a little something, you know."

Trapper lifted head. "You did?"

Hawkeye nodded, his hair brushing Trapper's face and tickling his nose. He sat, turning away and rummaging under the couch for a moment. He returned, clutching a small box.

It was wrapped and adorned with a ribbon just like the gift wrapping in a department store, but it took little more than a glance to recognise that Hawkeye had done this himself. The wrapping paper was the same stuff they had used these past two years, and the ribbon was off a gift Hawkeye's father had sent for his birthday. Trapper could vividly remember him tugging at the blue satin and struggling with the knot. Now, those same fingers held out a gift to him, much smaller than the one Daniel had sent, but no less appreciated.

He set his wine down and took the proffered gift.

The box was square and flat, about the size of Trapper's hand with all fingers spread. He held it, eyeing it curiously. "You really didn't have to, you know."

"Um, well…" Hawkeye gestured with a fluttering of hands, evidently a little embarrassed. "Technically I didn't really, but… you'll see when you open it."

Trapper's brow furrowed curiously.

"Go on! Open it!"

Trapper did so, pulling at the bow on top. The ribbon came undone, and the top loosened. Lifting it away, Trapper was raised his eyebrows at the contents: His own wallet sat nestled on paper tissues, as battered and creased as ever. He lifted it out, shooting Hawkeye a curious look. "Lemme guess? You slipped me back that ten bucks you owe me for my birthday present?"

"Uh… no, actually. But I will give you that back!"

"Uh-huh…" Trapper shot him a cheeky, dubious smile.

"Open the wallet, Trap."

Trapper did so. And as he did, his breath caught in his throat. "Oh, Hawk…"

Two photographs nestled together, side by side, in two of the ID compartments, framed in brown leather. One was a copy of Kathy and Becky's first school picture together – two chubby-cheeked little school girls smiling side by side over a pair of textbooks; the second, the snapshot Trapper had taken of Hawkeye on the beach in Lincoln the summer before last. It was almost too much for his heart to take.

"So you can carry us around with you. It's not much, but…"

"I love it." Trapper cut him off. If Hawkeye said another word, Trapper knew he would cry. He didn't want to cry. Christmas shouldn't be a time for tears, and he'd fought so hard to keep it together these past few weeks. Instead, he set the wallet aside and gathered Hawkeye in his arms, kissing him.

They were both drunk, and the kisses were sloppy. Trapper's lips caught on Hawkeye's day-old stubble. Eventually, he found his mouth, and kissed him. And again. And again.

And just like that, as if he'd hit a switch, Hawkeye was on. Stretching languidly in Trapper's arms, he inhaled, deepening the kiss, as if Trapper were breathing life into him. Perhaps he was. Hawkeye thrived on intimacy – the simple things like playful, unexpected kisses in the afternoon and cuddling up in bed together after a long day – and these past few weeks, with Trapper so distant and untouchable, had been sheer hell. Now, he felt alive again! His hands rose to Trapper's hair, fingers fanning through familiar curls, thumbs coming to rest against his cheekbones, learning the feel of his face all over again.

He drew closer, pulling himself off the cushions and onto Trapper's lap, breaking the kiss only when a sudden sharp movement accidentally knocked their front teeth together.

"Ow!"

"Ow!"

Hawkeye giggled and Trapper grinned. "Lemme kiss that better for ya…"

He did, and Hawkeye's whole body undulated in his arms, his knees sinking deeper into the cushions, his slender ribcage pressing tighter against Trapper's chest. Trapper could feel every movement, every breath, even every heartbeat as his pulse quickened with excitement. He needed more. With swift but measured movements, his hands mapped the familiar territory of Hawkeye's body, diving under the tuxedo jacket to tug loose his shirt and touch the skin beneath, as if exploring its contours, learning them anew. His thumbs traced gently across all-too-prominent ribs, his fingers coming to rest in the shallow furrows between. He followed their curvature, up and around to his bony spine, drawing a long moan from Hawkeye as the rough pads of his fingers brushed across sensitive skin. Hawkeye arched, and Trapper grinned.

"Gotta love that sensitive back o' yours."

He repeated the motion, this time with nails. And this time, Hawkeye moaned.

The sound seemed to awake something bestial in Trapper's heart, and sensuality turned to raging carnality. His lips found Hawkeye's throat, his teeth nipping at skin, and his hands roamed lower, cupping his ass, pulling him close. His hips rose from the cushions beneath him, pressing up against his lover, his arousal unmistakeable.

Hawkeye's gaze met his, and Trapper growled: "Go get the stuff."

Hawkeye laughed, looked away, then unfolded his gangly body from Trapper's lap. "Oh, well, when you put it so romantically…" With a dramatic toss of his head, he swaggered off to the bathroom.

Trapper didn't waste any time. With as much co-ordination as could be expected from one as intoxicated as he, he shimmied out of his clothes, discarding them to the floor, and then arranged his naked self in what he hoped was a visually pleasing pose, reclining against the couch. His eyes fell closed for a moment and he drifted in a gentle haze of drink, until…

"My, my! You know, I get the feeling I came to this party overdressed!"

Trapper opened his eyes again. Hawkeye was standing over him, still in his (albeit dishevelled) tux. Trapper shot him a drunken smile. "Well, you know what to do about that!"

"Yeah, I guess I do." Tossing the lubricant onto the couch, Hawkeye shrugged off his jacket and began tugging at his bow tie. It was the fastest strip tease in history, and took all of about fifteen seconds, half of which were spend hopping up and down on the cushions trying to take his socks off. Naked at last, he plopped himself down beside Trapper, grinning like the cat who got the cream.

"Very seductive," Trapper teased, shooting him one of his patented lop-sided grins.

Hawkeye's heart melted. "Well, you know, I try." Leaning close, he kissed Trapper gently on the lips. And then again – harder. Bodies pressed together, skin meeting skin, and Hawkeye murmured against Trapper's lips. "Missed this…"

"Yeah?"

Hawkeye slipped a hand between them, giving Trapper a firm but pleasurable squeeze. "Missed this, too."

Trapper chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated against Hawkeye's body. "You did, huh?"

"Yeah. Yeah I did." His voice was warm, his smile broad, but there was a hint of melancholy in Hawkeye's voice, and he cuddled closer, his head ducking into the nook of Trapper's shoulder to kiss his collarbone.

Somewhere in between the intimacy and the arousal, Trapper felt a stab of guilt. He knew he hadn't been particularly… available these past few weeks. Not sexually, not affectionately, not even emotionally, and he knew Hawkeye must have felt that deprivation keenly. Trapper reached out and cupped his chin, lifting his face up. Watery blue eyes met his own. "Lemme make it up to ya?"

He knew the response would be a resounding yes, and so, without hesitation, he took Hawkeye's slender body in his arms, rolling him onto the cushions. Hawkeye landed on his back with a loud "oof!" and a slightly startled expression, but shock turned to delight as Trapper carefully laid himself over him, and began kissing every inch of skin he could find. He started at his throat, where the skin was softest, in between the rough stubble of his chin and the sparse black hair that peppered his sternum. He inched across the expanse of his chest from clavicle to abdomen, watching and feeling the expansion of his ribcage with every breath, noting how each one came closer and closer together, how his heart was pounding so hard Trapper could feel the thrum of it. He glanced up. Hawkeye was watching him as he moved lower, lips parted, eyes half lidded, his body tensed in anticipation.

Trapper swallowed, and wetted his lips. This wasn't something he normally liked to do, but the drink, and the sense that he owed Hawkeye something for the weeks of misery he'd subjected him to, spurred him on.

The first contact made Hawkeye gasp, and his body rise from the cushions. Trapper's hands immediately grasped his hips to push him back and hold him steady. Hawkeye whimpered, gazing down at Trapper liked he couldn't quite believe what he was seeing – or feeling. He had to admit, Trapper's enthusiasm was somewhat lacking, and his technique non-existent, but Hawkeye couldn't bring himself to care too much. His hands grasped at the cushions. He wanted to grasp Trapper's hair, guide him to the perfect rhythm, show him just how he liked it, but he knew better than to try such a thing. The slightest disturbance might break the spell.

All too soon, Trapper pulled away. Hawkeye's body sagged with disappointment rather than satisfaction, but he swallowed his objections behind a tight-lipped smile, and Trapper, with all the smugness of a man with a job well done, settled beside him once more. "I figured I owed ya a Christmas present." He picked his wine glass up from the coffee table and took a long, slow sip.

Hawkeye stared at him, his eyebrows elevating towards his hairline. He'd never known that thirty seconds of mediocre oral sex constituted a gift. He wished someone had told him sooner – he could have saved over a hundred bucks in the past six years!

Unable to stop himself, he laughed.

"What's so funny?"

Hawkeye fell silent. He saw Trapper's face fall, and, with some bemusement, realised, as far as Trapper was concerned, he really had done something extra special! And so, Hawkeye decided not to comment; figured he ought to just be grateful for the rare treat and keep quiet. Not one to look a Christmas gift blow job in the mouth, he smiled. "So, seeing as we're exchanging gifts, do you want me to… uh…?" He licked his lips and glanced south. "… do you too?"

Trapper drained his glass and set it down once more. "Nah." His expression darkened, and his hands returned to Hawkeye's body, fingers trailing up his flank, full of promise. A moment later and he was on him, pinning him to the cushions. The weight of him forced the breath from Hawkeye's lungs, making him grunt from the pressure, his legs parting on instinct to grasp around Trapper's waist, holding him close. "You know what I want." He rolled his hips, and Hawkeye moaned softly in response, his eyelids fluttering closed, his body pushing back, seeking more sensation.

"Trapper…?"

Just as suddenly, Trapper pulled away, reached over to the couch, and a tube of KY landed on Hawkeye's belly.

It was a familiar non-verbal command, and Hawkeye was well acquainted with it by now. He didn't hesitate – although he did fumble the cap in his inebriated state – but he didn't rush the job either: With well-practised ease, he not only made his preparations but put on a show, and Trapper, his ever-appreciative audience, lapped up every moment, eyes dark with desire, his lower lip clenched between his teeth while the upper seemed to curl into an animalistic snarl. He hovered between Hawkeye's legs, one hand propping up his thigh, watching with fascination as Hawkeye touched himself, his hands aching to aid him but never quite able to. "You're obscene."

Hawkeye chuckled. "Oh, I'm obscene? You're the one watching…"

Trapper's response – almost one of anger at the suggestion – was to grab his wrist and pull his hand away. Hawkeye whined. "Hey, I was enjoying that!"

Panting, Trapper grasped his legs, pushing his thighs up and apart until he was bent double. He shot him a wicked, salacious grin. "Oh yeah? You'll like this, too…"

He pushed forward. Hawkeye's eyes immediately screwed closed, his body arching off the cushions, his head flung back. The sight took Trapper's breath away just as much as the sensation. There was something he could never quite get over about these first few seconds of lovemaking – a disbelief he couldn't shake. Maybe that Hawkeye allowed him to take him in this way, or that he enjoyed it so much, or even that he was doing it at all. But that moment of penetration when Hawkeye would arch, or hiss, or moan, or push back against him to make the sensation more intense was always the most profound, surreal feeling.

He began to draw back, half lost in sensation, and Hawkeye made a desperate keening sound, snapping Trapper's attention back to the moment like elastic.

Trapper smiled. "You like that, huh?" It was a rhetorical question. He gave his hips a roll, and got another moan in return. Smirking, he leaned down, covering Hawkeye's body with his own. Hawkeye's arms closed around him, his fingers delving into his hair, palm cradling the back of his neck. As he settled into a rhythm, Trapper leaned in close, his lips finding the soft skin of Hawkeye's temple, lost in a hazy cocktail of booze and erotic pleasure. "Christ, Hawk…"

Hawkeye wiggled beneath him. "Uh… Trapper?"

Trapper sighed and nuzzled him affectionately. "What is it?"

"A little help here?"

"Huh?" Trapper pushed himself up and looked at him, puzzled for a moment. "Oh yeah… um, sorry." He leaned to the side, rose onto his knees a little, and slipped a hand between them to give Hawkeye a helping hand, so to speak. The new position was awkward, the pressure on his shoulder uncomfortable, but Hawkeye sighed with appreciation. His fingers wrapped around Trapper's forearm, urging him on.

But he was to be disappointed. Trapper's shoulder pain cranked up a notch, and, wincing, he sat back on his haunches, prompting a whine of impassioned objection from Hawkeye. "Why'd you stop?"

"This ain't workin'. It's easier if you do it. An' turn over, huh? I'm leanin' over so far sideways I feel like I'm tryin'a make love on the deck o' the Titanic."

"Imagine that! You could wind up going down twice in one day…" Hawkeye complied, and Trapper eagerly scrambled back into position – a little too eagerly. Hawkeye yelped. "Take it easy back there, careful with the merchandise."

"Sorry." Trapper's hands came to rest on Hawkeye's hips, and, a little gentler than he had been a moment ago, he found his rhythm. Below him, Hawkeye fell into his own, sparing him the effort. "Oh, that's better…" Trapper purred. His hand slid along Hawkeye's spine, eliciting a pleasurable shudder. "This good for you?"

Hawkeye went non-verbal, but the satisfied murmur at the sensation said it all.

A short while later, and he was doing more than murmuring. It had to be said, Hawkeye's mid-coitus vocalising was really something impressive. It was also Trapper had never quite gotten used to, never quite felt comfortable with, but on this occasion it was more arousing than distracting. Maybe it was the booze that relaxed him, took the edge off his paranoia, but tonight, Hawkeye's uninhibited moaning only added to Trapper's excitement, and, as Hawkeye howled his pleasure into the upholstery, he followed him over the precipice within a few seconds.

Hawkeye slumped onto the cushions, spent, lying face down with his eyes half closed. Beside him, Trapper reclined, panting slightly. "That was great, Hawk." He slapped Hawkeye's backside playfully.

Stirring, Hawkeye lifted his head a little. "Hey, no kinky stuff, or I'll have to charge you extra."

Trapper chuckled, and Hawkeye slung and arm around him for a post-coital cuddle. But Trapper pulled away, clambering to his feet.

"Hey, where're you going?" Hawkeye's speech was sleepy and slurred.

"To get cleaned up."

"Oh, don't do that. Come back, gimme some snuggle time." He held out a hand in Trapper's direction.

Trapper hesitated, unsure how to respond to this request. He was spared, mercifully, by Hawkeye's exhaustion, as the proffered hand soon dropped limply onto the cushions, and he began to snore gently. Trapper breathed a sigh of relief, grasped the throw from the nearby couch and draped it carefully over Hawkeye's naked form. This done, he wasted no time in taking himself off to the bathroom for a long, hot shower. It was some time before he would emerge.