Chapter Summary: Following a drunken attempt at desertion, Trapper begins to deal with his feelings for Hawkeye, and decides to initiate a casual - yet nerve-wracking - first date... (Takes place a few hours after the end of 'Mail Call'.)

Korea – April, 1951

ONE…

Two weeks.

It had been two weeks since Hawkeye had drunkenly confessed to a teenage summer romance with the boy across the street in Crabapple Cove; two weeks since the confession had led to some hesitant, exploratory kissing between him and Trapper; two weeks since they had woken up the following morning and both denied any memory of what had happened the night before.

Hawkeye seemed unfazed. He continued to laugh and joke his way through surgery and free time alike, chasing girls and annoying Frank and gleefully wearing out Henry's last nerve.

Trapper, however, was a very different story. The experience, and the knowledge of Hawkeye's secret, had left him feeling constantly on edge, like every casual touch between the two of them was liable to bring the full force of J-CORP crashing down upon them. He noticed how Hawkeye's jokes, which so often had a sexual edge to them, were sometimes directed at men, too; how he would flutter his eyelashes coquettishly at visiting officers and make dirty comments to Frank, just to get a rise out of him. He noticed now that Hawkeye would sometimes smile warmly at the odd handsome soldier who came through post-op, taking just a little extra time here and there, never as obvious as he was with the ladies, but unmistakeably flirtatious, and that occasionally – just occasionally – they would smile back in that same way. It gave Trapper an awful cold, sinking feeling in his gut – not because he was jealous, but because he knew what it meant now, and if he could see it, what if others saw it, too?

But Trapper didn't show his concern. He still smiled at Hawkeye's blatantly filthy jokes, albeit a little more stiffly, and was perhaps fractionally less boisterous in his half of the double act. His quips were a little less snappy, his insults less biting. Hawkeye would glance at him over the prone bodies of their unconscious patients, and Trapper would hear his name and glance up. "Huh?" He never heard the setup line: his mind was somewhere else, imagining a complex labyrinth of 'maybe's and 'what if's spinning off in a hundred alternate realities that all started on that one night. The thoughts invaded his mind at every opportunity: he would lie awake at night, watching the rise and fall of Hawkeye's chest beneath his blankets, and his hands would shake and his heart would start pounding and his skin felt flushed and clammy.

And he realised he could bear it no longer.

Last night, after a heavy drinking session, he'd been so desperate to get away from the object of his desires that he'd attempted to desert and escape to the States so he could curl up in the nice, safe, respectable arms of his wife and try and forget all about them.

About Hawkeye.

He forced himself to view it strictly within that context. This was not him – it was something to do with Hawkeye. There was something about the guy that drove Trapper crazy.

Now, he sat nervously in the scrub room, wiping sweaty palms on the knees of his fatigues, and he had reached the conclusion that a different approach was in order. Maybe - just maybe - if he could satisfy his curiosity, let his fixation run its course and burn itself out, it would pass on its own. Just like the chills brought on by a fever, if he kept fighting it, he was only dragging it out more. He had to face it head on - and there was no way he could do that alone.

He felt distinctly foolish. Not since his early, teenaged attempts at dating had he ever felt so intimidated by the idea of making a move on somebody, and yet the idea of even acknowledging that had already passed between them filled him with dread.

It wasn't a fear of rejection, he knew that much: it was a fear of what it meant. Trapper was no prude, and he certainly wasn't a bigot, but was this really a side of himself he wanted to explore? Especially now, in a place and an institution where discovery could have the direst of consequences. And what was the point? He was married, and he already had an unhealthy number of affairs under his belt. But the feelings, and the guilt they brought with them, were driving him to distraction.

"Theatrics weren't quite at the usual calibre tonight, were they, McIntyre?"

The voice broke his reverie and Trapper looked up. "What's that you're sayin', Frank?"

"One half of the cabaret duo didn't seem to be picking up his cues. You coming down with something, or did you finally get tired of Pierce's juvenile humour?"

Trapper stiffened a little. "Hawkeye's okay," he said, tossing his surgical scrubs into the laundry. "You just gotta take 'im with a pinch of salt."

Frank merely snorted and turned to leave, almost colliding with Margaret. The flurry of embarrassment and fawning apologies that followed still managed to raise a smile to Trapper's lips.

"Oh, Major Houlihan, I'm so very sorry…"

"Oh, it's quite alright Major…"

"I hope I didn't startle you…"

"Not at all…"

Chuckling, Trapper watched as the pair of them made multiple excuses and shuffled off together, pretending, with very little acting skill, that they weren't about to go and make out for a while.

He had to admit, for all their faults, the camp's infamous Majors-in-love weren't too scared to pursue the object of their affections…

To hell with it, Trapper thought. His free time in this God-forsaken place had been one debauched misbehaviour after another. Why not add one more to the list? If he indulged his curiosity, maybe it would go away. It wasn't like he was looking to spend the rest of his life with the guy.

Erring on the side of subtlety, Trapper snatched up the post-op clipboard, and, in almost unrecognisable cursive, carefully penned Hawkeye a note, all the while trying to ignore the pounding in his chest. Nothing fancy – 'Supply room, 8pm. Be there?' – signed, in a rather corny touch, Trapper felt, with a kiss.

Without a moment's further thought or hesitation, he folded the note swiftly into quarters, and stuffed it into the pocket of Hawkeye's field jacket. That done, he strode into the compound. No turning back. No changing his mind. It was done.

What exactly he would do come 8pm remained a mystery even to him, but he had a while to figure that out. In the meantime, he shoved his hands deep into his pockets, and made a beeline for the Swamp, fighting to keep his thoughts from racing. He told himself that his trembling had nothing to do with anything other than the coolness of the air.

Trapper paced the supply room, already shivering. The stove in here wasn't lit, as he didn't fancy drawing attention to himself. He'd left the lights off, too. Under normal circumstances, it wouldn't have bothered him, but this was… different.

It wasn't even quite eight yet. He wasn't afraid that Hawkeye wouldn't show – oh no, his friend had swanned into the Swamp shortly after the O.R. session looking impossibly spritely, and had declared with great delight that he was meeting some mystery date in in the supply tent. Trapper had watched in wry amusement and anticipation as Hawkeye began his preparatory ablutions, surprised to find that his hands had become unpleasantly clammy. He had ducked out as Hawkeye began his preparations, washing and shaving and gargling in front of the cracked mirror that hung from the tent pole.

Hawkeye would be here for sure, and then he would have to work out what the hell to say to him. And Trapper wasn't too certain how he felt about that. Twice he almost bolted. Both times he forced himself to stay.

Now, for a third time he found himself getting cold feet. He paced, and he panicked, and he told himself over and over that it was no big deal – it was just a bit of fun and it didn't mean half of what his paranoia told him it meant…

And then the door handle of the supply tent rattled, and the door opened.

Trapper's heart leapt into his throat. Hawkeye was early! Or… what if it wasn't Hawkeye? What is it was somebody else, and then Hawkeye showed up before Trapper could persuade them to leave, and he would be forced to explain why he and Hawkeye were meeting in the supply room after dark with no girls and why Hawkeye had a love note in his pocket…

By the time a familiar figure crept into the room, Trapper had already rehearsed half a dozen explanations. Then he heard Hawkeye's smooth baritone voice humming some obscure show tune, and he slumped against the shelves with relief. 'Talk about jumpy…' he scolded himself.

Holding back for just a moment, Trapper watched Hawkeye as he turned out his pockets into the small crate in the corner that doubled as a dining table for romantic nights out. Still humming, he placed a bottle of cheap wine (the brand the store in Seoul sold to you if you were particularly desperate) on the table and laid out a pair of Martini glasses. Next, he stuck a pair of candles in the centre, and rummaged in his pocket for a box of matches. The match lit on the second strike, and for a moment, Trapper watched from the shadows as Hawkeye was illuminated in the orange glow of the flame. He touched the match to each of the candles in turn, before extinguishing it and tossing it aside.

Trapper took three steps towards him, and the room seemed to spin.

Hawkeye turned. His eyes widened, and he clutched his chest, and yelped. And then, his face creasing into a grin, he bent double and cackled with laughter. "Jesus, Trapper! Don't do that to me! You nearly gave me an early coronary!"

Trapper frowned. "Yeah, sorry about that."

Then Hawkeye grabbed his arm, and Trapper twitched like he'd been electrocuted. Hawkeye didn't notice, and nudged him towards the door. "Look, you can't be here! I'm entertaining tonight! I have a reservation and everything – take yours someplace else."

Trapper swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. "Uh… yeah. Hawk… about that…"

"What?" Hawkeye's gaze flickered upwards for a second – and then he froze. "Oh." He looked up, holding Trapper's gaze this time. His eyes widened again, and his jaw went slack. "Oh!" He sounded genuinely stunned. And then, gradually, as the details of the situation dawned on him, a sly smile appeared on his lips. "Oh…"

The smile, no matter how ridiculous, ignited a little spark of warmth in Trapper's belly, despite the cold, and he couldn't help but smile back. "Uh… yeah."

"Oh!" Hawkeye said again, a curious, playful glint in his eye. "This note in my pocket? That was you?" He fished the note out and held it up. He looked genuinely delighted, and so help him, Trapper's heart began to pound a little faster at the sight of that look on his face.

What had he been so afraid of? "Well, there ain't nobody else in here hopin' to score with ya." The casual comment hid a multitude of emotions, but it felt good to fall back into his usual good humour. It felt right and natural, and suddenly this thing he had been fretting over for two weeks didn't feel so frightening.

He moved just fractionally closer, feeling ever so slightly unsteady as he stood before Hawkeye, only a few inches away, knowing he was on the cusp of something. Or rather, hoped he was…

And Hawkeye moved, too, closing the gap between them further still. For a moment, Trapper thought he was going to kiss him. The thought of kissing Hawkeye again made his stomach do an excited little backflip, and his body tensed and his heart pounded as Hawkeye's eyes flickered to his lips and back again.

"So this is… something you'd be interested in?"

"Uh…" Trapper wasn't entirely sure what 'this' was, but Hawkeye was making some vague gesture towards himself, and Trapper had to admit that the hazy ideas the notion was giving him were indeed… interesting. And frightening. And… a whole bunch of other things that he couldn't quite assign words too, but now wasn't the time. Hawkeye was looking at him earnestly, almost cautious, and yet positively brimming with pent up excitement, an excited smile playing at the corners of his mouth and his eyes sparkling with anticipation. Trapper had never seen him like this before. He'd seen how he was with the nurses: almost arrogant in his flirtations, lapping up every hint of reciprocation and gleefully pursuing any sniff of an interested party. It was actually quite touching. Trapper gazed at Hawkeye's almost-serious expression, and a smile spread across his face, mirrored by the one on Hawkeye's. His earlier hesitancy vanished. "I'd say it is."

Hawkeye drew closer, acting more like his usual unswayable self. "You been on the sauce?" he asked, pausing just inches away, his nose almost touching Trapper's, his breath warm against his skin.

"Not touched a drop," Trapper vowed. "I'm stone cold sober."

"And yet still here…" There was still hesitancy mingled in his delight, and he was still refusing to close the gap between them.

"I ain't goin' anywhere," Trapper assured him, his voice hushed, his tone earnest.

"You know," Hawkeye said, balancing on the very cusp of a kiss, "I drew a line for myself a long time ago about getting involved with married women."

"I ain't a married woman." Trapper gave him a playful smirk. "Does that make a difference?"

"I know that." Hawkeye rolled his eyes and grinned. "And something does feel different. It's not that, but…" His eyes flickered again, an unmistakeable glance over Trapper's handsome form, his breathing becoming fractionally more laboured. "It's your call. I'm not making the first move here," he announced firmly, "but if this is something you want, I'm… more than willing to…" He trailed off, the not-so-explicit offer dangling in the tense air between them.

Trapper grasped it without a moment's further hesitation.

This wasn't like the drunken, surreal tryst they'd shared a fortnight earlier. Trapper consciously and decisively closed the gap between them and kissed his best friend. And unlike the first time, every sensation was crisp and clear, carving itself into his memory.

He felt aware of everything. Hawkeye's height in comparison to his own (Trapper was used to stooping); the slight abrasion of the stubble on his chin, even though he was freshly shaved; even the taste of him. Hawkeye tasted like spearmint toothpaste, smelled like pine soap and shaving foam and that aftershave he bought by the gallon in Tokyo. The detergent from the scrub room had left a faint aroma, clinical yet familiar. He smelt clean, and in a place where Trapper spent every day battling vermin, dirt, death and disease, cleanliness was a welcome holiday. More than welcome. He inhaled deeply, deepening the kiss, pressing against Hawkeye, eager to get closer…

"Holy shit…!"

The words were murmured against Hawkeye's lips, bypassing Trapper's brain and heading straight for his mouth. He felt almost embarrassed when he heard himself!

And, of course, Hawkeye heard him, too. A good natured laugh escaped him, and he broke the kiss for a moment. His eyes crinkled in amusement, a playful smirk on his face.

"What?" Trapper mumbled, pulling back a little.

Hawkeye grinned. "Trapper – blasphemy and profanity all in one! I must be good!"

Chuckling, Trapper shot him one of his trademark crooked grins. "You ain't bad."

Laughing, Hawkeye drew closer again, his hand rising to cradle the back of Trapper's neck, holding him close. It was a gesture he had made many times before, but never had it felt so intimate until now. For a moment, Trapper thought he was going to kiss him again. He was disappointed when he didn't.

"Come on," Hawkeye said. "Have a drink with me."

Together, they retired to the cosy corner where Hawkeye had set down the wine and the candle, and sank a little awkwardly onto the old mattress that had served as the venue for countless illicit bunk-ups. Taking a moment, they sat at the little crate, their shoulders touching, and Hawkeye busied himself uncorking the wine with well-practiced ease.

"Tryin'a get me drunk again?" Trapper joked with a slightly nervous laugh.

"Not at all!" Hawkeye poured them both a glass. "I merely thought refreshment was in order, just while you get your breath back."

"I look tired to you?"

"No, but that 'deer in headlights' look you have going right now doesn't quite suit you."

"I'm sorry," Trapper said again, accepting his Martini glass full of red wine. "This is just… all so new, you know?"

"Forget it. Stop apologising." Hawkeye waved a hand dismissively and buried his nose in his wine. "Urgh, that's disgusting!" He coughed, shuddered, and stuck his tongue out, making a comic gagging noise. "Well, what are you waiting for? Drink up!"

Trapper eyed his beverage suspiciously, and took a cautious sip. It was… fairly vile. "This is like anti-freeze," he informed Hawkeye.

"If I'd known it was you," Hawkeye quipped with a sly smile, "I'd have brought the rot-gut instead of wasting the good stuff!"

"Oh, gee! Thanks!"

"Oh, I didn't mean it like that!" Hawkeye pulled him closer, and, once again, Trapper thought he was going to be kissed. Again, he was disappointed. He was beginning to notice a theme.

"So, let me get this straight here…" Hawkeye clung affectionately to Trapper's arm as he dug around in his pocket for Trapper's note, clasping it between two fingers and waving it around. "You remembered that little conversation we had?"

"Looks like…" Trapper shot Hawkeye a smirk.

"You told me you didn't! I asked you what happened and you said you didn't remember!"

"Yeah… well, you said you didn't either!" Trapper gestured with his glass and took another sip.

"No, I didn't! I asked you whether or not you remembered what happened, so I'd know whether or not it was safe to talk about it once you were sober, and potentially more likely to report me or disown me or punch me in the mouth." Hawkeye sat back, surveying Trapper with a look on his face that bordered on irritation. "Do you have any idea how many weeks it took me to build up the guts to share that stuff with you? And then I wake up the next morning and you forgot?! Not only what I'd told you, but also the surprising but really quite delightful lip-locking that went on after…" He waggled his eyebrows and grinned.

Trapper grinned, too, a little embarrassed even now by the memory. "Yeah, that wasn't too bad, was it?"

"And you remembered everything?!" Hawkeye shook his head. "We could have had two weeks of eating each other alive, if only I'd known!"

Trapper struggled to come up with an explanation. Did he really want to? Did he want to confess to Hawkeye that he had agonised over what had passed between them, beaten himself up, and nearly bolted back to the States because he couldn't deal with it? No, he didn't. In the absence of a real explanation, he gave a highly succinct summary: "I panicked."

"You did, huh?" Now calmer, Hawkeye leaned in close once more, gently taking Trapper's hand, as he'd done countless times in friendship. "I'm sorry. It's just… it was a big deal telling you what I did. Would have been nice to have…" He paused, thinking better of whatever it was he was going to say. His fingers ran gently over Trapper's hand. "Forget it. It's not your fault. I get it – it's a big deal when you first… well, you know what I mean."

"I think I'm startin' to." Trapper swallowed. His palms were sweaty, but Hawkeye didn't seem to care. His hand continued to rub in soothing circles. Trapper glanced down as Hawkeye's fingers continued their hypnotic, teasing dance. "Are you gonna kiss me again, or are we just gonna sit here holdin' hands like a couple'a nervous high school kids whose parents are in the next room?"

Again, a sly smile spread across Hawkeye's face. "Would you like me to?"

"I'll say!" Trapper's hand was shaking a little, and he set his glass down – just in time to wind up with an armful of Hawkeye.

The man moved like you wouldn't believe when the mood took him. Gangly and awkward and all limbs, he didn't look capable, but somehow Hawkeye slid across the mattress, pressing against Trapper, his body bending to get the most contact. Trapper had never noticed before how flexible and slight he was, how those long limbs arranged themselves just so in order to turn the most casual of contacts into an embrace. He was undeniably, unapologetically sexual, and it was intoxicating!

Overwhelmed by the intensity, he wrapped his arms around Hawkeye, holding him tight, melting in the heat of his embrace, and devouring his lips. Hawkeye met him in ferocity, responding to his kisses in a way Trapper was scarcely accustomed too. His hands snaked into clothing, grasping at cloth and flesh alike. His lips pressed firmly against Trapper's, his teeth nibbled, and he growled deep in the back of his throat.

"You're an animal," Trapper found himself panting as Hawkeye bit playfully at his neck.

"Wait 'til you find out what I'm like in bed."

The comment brought with it an intoxicating cocktail that was one part arousal, one part terror, and Trapper froze. He drew back, panting, his heart racing. Waiting, he decided, would probably be a very good idea.

Hawkeye took it well, apologising sheepishly for being too forward, but he tugged nervously at his cuffs and smoothed his hair for the third time in thirty seconds. Trapper had seen him take a slap in the face and never seem so twitchy!

They slid apart a little, putting a few inches of space between them. Hawkeye, perhaps for wont of something to do with his hands, picked up his drink and handed Trapper his.

"Sorry," he said for the fifth time, taking another sip of wine.

Trapper cradled his glass, staring at it, feeling a little awkward. "It's nothin' personal. Just…"

"Too fast. I know. I do that." Hawkeye pulled his legs up to his chest, long arms resting around his knees as he curled in on himself, looking for all the world like a sheepish teenage boy on an awkward first date. He glanced up, and, noticing the way Trapper was studying him, fidgeted awkwardly. "What?"

Chuckling, Trapper decided to pass on the wine for now, and set his drink aside. Instead, his hand reached hesitantly for the back of Hawkeye's neck, his fingers questing into his hair and his thumb caressing the skin. Hawkeye stretched and leaned into the touch, practically purring. "Thanks, Hawk," he said softly.

Hawkeye moaned. "What for?"

"For showin' me somethin' new."

"New but terrifying, right?" Hawkeye laughed and took another mouthful of awful wine.

"Not so terrifying. It's been… nice, actually, an' if you don't mind, I'd sure like to do it again sometime."

Hawkeye gave up on his drink and took hold of Trapper's knee instead. "Well… you know where I live!" He leaned over and gave Trapper a gentle peck on the lips. This time, Trapper didn't pull away.

They abandoned Hawkeye's awful bottle of wine, and kissed a little more. Then they kissed a lot more. And then, at last, having concluded that half an hour was far too long to be away from the camp without drawing suspicion, they agreed to call it a night. After a momentary readjusting of both clothing and underwear, Hawkeye plucked his field jacket, candles, and bottle from their cosy corner, and kissed Trapper affectionately on the lips. "Until next time, mon capitan," he waxed lyrical with a smile.

Trapper smiled back. That smile didn't vanish, even once they ventured back out into the cool spring night and trudged across to the Officer's Club. There, they slung their arms around the nearest nurses like nothing had happened. It was delightfully warm inside. Trapper was giddy with romance, and, even as he cosied up to Nurse Marshall, it was Hawkeye he was staring at.

"Where have you been?" Margie Cutler demanded to know as Hawkeye nuzzled up against her. "Your Martini's getting warm."

"You bought me a drink?"

"Yeah. It'll be about body temperature now. I drank it over half an hour ago. Where were you?"

"Oh, you know me," Hawkeye said, shooting Trapper a grin. "I get around."

Trapper tried to disguise the smug, contented smirk spreading across his features. He failed dismally.