Author's notes: This is a late addition to the series, written in response to feedback from a couple of people who have said they wished to see more of Trapper interacting with his daughters. I decided I wanted to meet this request, and so this was written over the last few weeks to fill this need.

The title is taken from the play by Harold Pinter.

January, 1957

Trapper swept through the apartment with almost military efficiency, hyped up on adrenaline. His nerves were jangling, his palms sweaty. Everything had to be just so.

The surfaces were clean, the refrigerator stocked. A plate of cookies sat expectantly on the kitchen counter. Hawkeye's dirty socks had been rounded up and herded into the laundry basket.

The only thing Trapper couldn't fix was the temperature. The new apartment was large and draughty; an old warehouse that had been split into housing units when the businesses in the area had failed and 'urban renewal' had become the word of the week. The owners had cut corners to save money: the central heating was woefully insufficient for such a large space, and the tiny wood burner in the living room seemed to do little to help it on its way, while burning through fuel like there was no tomorrow. The square footage was the only thing it had going for it, and the cost of the rent was likely to cripple them. Meanwhile, the heat escaped through the vast, ancient windows that lined the exterior walls like railway arches. Hawkeye had joked that it would be cheaper to just throw dollar bills directly into the fire.

Trapper was half convinced he was right. Cringing as he did so, he flung another handful of firewood into the dying flames. He couldn't have the apartment cold – not today.

Everything was perfect! Well, as perfect as it was going to be. There was just one small hitch…

Making his way into the small, darkened bedroom, Trapper stepped carefully over the boxes and cases from which they had been unpacking their belongings, the task still half-done. The light was still off despite it being almost lunchtime, and the curtains were drawn. Trapper felt his way around the room, and lowered himself gently onto the bed.

Its occupant stirred, and Trapper leaned closer. "Hawk?"

Hawkeye mumbled a little, rolled over, and opened his eyes. "Trapper? That you?"

Trapper chuckled a little and pinched Hawkeye's cheek playfully. "You'd be worried if it was somebody else."

Hawkeye, too, managed a weak laugh. "If it was James Dean, you wouldn't hear me complaining."

From anyone else, this would be a good sign. But cracking jokes was second nature to Hawkeye, and good humour was no indication of good health.

Hawkeye had been bedridden with the flu for days now – ever since a sudden eviction had forced the pair of them to spend the best part of two weeks living in their car in sub-zero temperatures – and still looked sickly. The cold, damp apartment they'd found hadn't been much of an improvement, and Hawkeye's recovery was taking some time. Trapper still hadn't had the heart to tell him he'd had a call to tell him he'd been let go at work.

But one problem at a time, eh?

Gently, Trapper brushed his damp hair aside and pressed a kiss to Hawkeye's clammy forehead. "Christ, you're hot…"

Hawkeye fluttered his eyelashes. "You're not so bad yourself, sugar."

Trapper only managed a weak laugh this time, shifting awkwardly as he tried to work out a solution to the dilemma he was faced with. He felt painfully guilty as he asked the question: "I uh… don't suppose you'd be up for a little trip down the coffee shop?"

Shaking his head, Hawkeye burrowed down into the blankets and pulled the sheet up around his chin. "Oh, that's sweet of you. Maybe some other time. Give me a few days to get my strength back – I'll be more fun by then. 'Kay?"

"No, I meant… on your own."

Hawkeye stared at him quizzically.

Trapper winced and explained his meaning: "I got the girls comin' today, remember?"

This was not the news Hawkeye wanted to hear. Not today. As much as he had tried to share in Trapper's joy when he got to see his daughters, it was hard to feel joyous when he was getting thrown out of the apartment every time they visited. And now, sick as he was, he couldn't face the idea of another day spent roaming the streets, counting the minutes until he could come home! Pushing himself up on trembling arms, his fixed Trapper with a wide-eyed, determined stare, suddenly lucid. "Oh no! No no no! You're not doing that to me! You can't make me go out there – not when I can barely drag myself out of bed!"

"What am I s'posed to do, Hawk?!"

"It's bad enough you make me do it at all! You know how it feels getting tossed outta your own home for half the day? Wandering around like a tourist who just got his wallet swiped? It's pathetic!"

"You're over-reactin'!"

"I walked past a soup kitchen last time and they asked if I wanted to come in for a hot meal!"

"Maybe you should'a taken 'em up on it – we're poor enough. An' you do dress like a bum."

He smiled as he said it, but Hawkeye was in no mood for jokes – especially at his expense. He looked up, his face a picture of misery. "Don't do this to me. Trapper, I'm sick. If I go out there, it could finish me off! Please don't make me!"

Trapper flinched a little at the pain in those glassy blue eyes. "They're Louise's rules – not mine."

Hawkeye scowled and turned away, burrowing into the blankets. "Right, I get it. She who must be obeyed. She says jump, you push me off a cliff."

Had he not been sick, Trapper thought, he probably wouldn't have been nearly so candid. He had to admit, he did feel sorry for Hawkeye. Louise's determination to isolate him from the children did strike him, at times, as a little unfair, but the alternative – explaining to Kathy and Becky that their father was a sexual deviant and living with another man – filled Trapper with a sense of shame and self-loathing that he couldn't begin to think on. And so, whenever the girls came in, Hawkeye went out. And so it had been for years.

But Hawkeye's words struck a chord. He was being a push-over – it was hard not to be when his ex-wife was breathing down his neck with her phalanx of lawyers – and maybe it was time to start… bending the rules a little. Screw Louise. Hawkeye was right. He couldn't toss him out, and he knew that if he tried to reschedule it could be months before Louise granted him another visit. They would find a way around this.

"Okay," he said, with a determined nod. Already, his pulse was quickening, his palms sweating, anxious at the mere thought of breaking his contract to his ex-wife. "You stay put. Feel better. I'll get you a glass of water, an'… an' then later, I'll make you chicken soup, the way ya like it. Just… don't go forgettin' yerself an' walkin' into the livin' room with no clothes on, an' try to keep yer snorin' down to a dull roar. Alright?"

Hawkeye flopped back down on the bed, partly out of exhaustion and partly out of relief. "I don't snore."

Trapper pressed another kiss to his forehead and got up to find his shoes and his car keys. "Feel better. An' stay quiet! Or it'll be both our asses in a sling in front o' the family court."

"Look at us, beating the system," Hawkeye mumbled into his pillow as he rolled over and tried to get comfortable in his sweaty sheets. "We're such rebels."

Glancing back at him, Trapper tried not to imagine what might happen if Kathy or Becky happened to wander into the bedroom by mistake and stumble across a sleeping, sickly Hawkeye in their father's bed. "Yeah," he muttered in response, pulling his winter jacket on with trembling hands. "We sure are."

As he turned to leave, he performed the one ritual he felt compelled to adhere to every time he left to meet his daughters. It was something Hawkeye had never witnessed, and now, he hoped to God he was already sleepy enough not to witness it, or to notice: with shaking fingers, Trapper carefully twisted his wedding band free from his finger, and dropped it into a small pottery dish on the dresser.

Less than an hour later, and Trapper was ushering a pair of schoolchildren into the new apartment, exhausted from the climb up to the top floor. They trudged into the still-cool apartment, silent and sullen, while Trapper followed, weight down with satchels, homework bags, and the collection of games Louise always insisted he take so that the girls would have something to do.

"So, uh… this is the new place!" Trapper dropped his load in the corner by the hat stand and gestured to the apartment. "Whaddaya think?"

Becky didn't say a word, but shrugged and headed straight for the couch, dropping onto it like a sack of potatoes and kicking her heels up on the coffee table.

"Hey – feet off the furniture!"

Becky complied, but gave the scratched old coffee table a look that made it fairly apparent she didn't really see the point.

Kathy watched her older sister, then turned and glanced at her father. "This place smells funny."

Trapper's eyes widened. "Oh! Gee, thanks! That ain't a nice thing to say when you walk into somebody's home!"

"But it does!"

There was no malice in little Kathy's observation. The ten year old child merely said things as she thought of them, offering her commentary on the world as she saw it, free from the constraints of adult concerns such as etiquette.

Trapper tried not to take it personally, and smiled. "I'll tell you what, honey. Next time you come over, we'll get a great big bunch of flowers, an' put 'em right here on the kitchen counter, so the place'll smell however you want it!"

"That'll be nice!" Kathy conceded with a grin. "It'll smell like… lillies!"

"If that's what you want, then that's what we'll have!"

"Promise?"

"Promise! Now how about you give daddy a hug?"

Kathy threw her arms around him, and Trapper scooped her up gratefully into his arms. It was no easy task – his little girl wasn't so little anymore!

"Daddy's new place ain't so bad, is it?" Trapper coaxed, propping Kathy up in his arms.

"It's okay," she conceded with a shrug.

"An' it's got a great view! Come on - check this out!"

Carrying Kathy to the window, Trapper wiped the condensation from the glass so she could look out over the lights of the city, and the docks where the boats chugged to and fro into the harbours. This, much to Trapper's relief, seemed to meet with Kathy's approval, although Trapper noted with some dismay that clouds were gathering, and raindrops were beginning to patter against the glass, thus scuppering any plans he might have contemplated that would have got the girls out of the house for a few hours.

But Kathy didn't care about the weather: "Wow!" the little girl breathed, her breath misting up the glass again so she had to wipe it with her wrist. "You can't see anything like this from our house! Not even in the highest, highest attic that mom says we're not supposed to go in!"

Trapper chuckled. "Is that right?"

"Why did you move?"

The question, asked from the couch in a surly, challenging tone, made Trapper's blood run cold. He turned slightly, allowing Kathy to slip back onto her feet. "What?"

Becky looked back over her shoulder. "Why did you move? I mean, this is the fifth apartment you've brought us to! There was nothing wrong with the old one; this isn't even in a different part of town; you've got all this space and no stuff, and I can't see any possible reason…"

"The old place had damp."

The excuse felt lame even as it tripped off his lips, but it was the first thing he could think of. What was he supposed to say? 'Well, Becky, Daddy keeps getting beat up an' tossed outta apartments because he lives with another guy, an' people don't like that sorta thing. Do ya know what a homosexual is, Becky? Well, grab a cookie an' Daddy'll explain…'

He shuddered. Becky stared at him, and in that precise moment, she looked just like her mother. Trapper's throat constricted, and he swallowed hard. "You girls brought any homework with ya?"

The question, asked in a sterner tone than Trapper had intended, hung in the air in agonising silence.

Kathy's pencil scratched across her homework book as she pressed down a little too hard, in that way children have a tendency to do. Her face was lowered, inches away from the paper, her little nose scrunched up in thought as she worked her way through her sums.

Trapper watched, seated beside her, his own face tilted close to the paper as he observed her work. "You sure about that, honey?" He tapped the paper beside her latest answer.

"Uh-huh."

"You sure you don't wanna check it?" He gave her a look, raised eyebrows and a little smile.

Kathy giggled. "I'll check it." She did, creased her little face up, and smacked herself in the forehead with her palm. "Ack! I'm such a dunderhead!"

"You ain't nothin' of the sort. Come on, now. No harm done. Just cross it out an' try again."

Kathy did as she was told, scribbling furiously at the incorrect answer. Her pencil broke. "Oh no!"

"It's okay, honey. These things happen." Picking up her pencil case from the far side of the table, he rummaged inside for a pencil sharpener. He came back fruitless.

"Ain't you got a pencil sharpener?"

Kathy shrugged. "I must'a left it in my other bag." She glanced about the apartment. "You're gonna have one somewhere, though, right?"

Trapper leapt to his feet, the kitchen chair skidding noisily as he shoved it across the bare floorboards. The last thing he needed was Kathy poking around the apartment! Not when Hawkeye was asleep in the next room. "Don't worry, I got this!" He yanked open the kitchen drawer that usually housed that sort of junk, but what with having moved so recently, the usual stationery wasn't inside.

Tutting, Trapper turned his attentions upon the rest of the apartment, diving into cupboards and delving through drawers. Still, there was nothing. "Shit…" As he traversed the room, his eyes fell upon Becky, still sat reading on the couch, engrossed in whatever literature her school had deemed acceptable – although there didn't seem to be much of it.

"You got a pencil sharpener, honey?" Trapper asked her, rummaging through yet another drawer.

Becky did not look up. "Nope."

Trapper glanced in her direction once more. She was sat perfectly still, her school bag unopened at her feet, her notebook on the couch beside her. Trapper drew closer.

"Hey!"

Becky looked up at him. Trapper's gaze fell upon the literature in her lap. "Are you kiddin' me, Rebecca? I ask you to do your homework, an' you're readin' a goddamned comic book?" He snatched the offending magazine away from her. "You get this back after you're done! Now where's your homework?"

Fixing him with an unwavering glare, Becky shrugged. "I forgot it."

"You forgot it?"

Becky folded her arms and stared at the wall. "Yep!" She began to swing her legs playfully, more than content in her story.

Trapper bit his lip as his temper flared. "I don't believe you."

Another shrug. "I don't care."

"Goddamn it, Becky…" Trapper turned away, quietly seething with impotent fury. He didn't want to be the guy who yelled at his kids all the time – his father had spent too much time doing just that, and Trapper knew first hand that it did no good – but Becky had been getting more and more difficult as her teenage years drew ever closer. He knew in his heart that she wouldn't dare to speak to her mother like this, and yet he was fair game, and there seemed little he could do to reason with her. "I've had just about enough of this," he chastised weakly through clenched teeth. "You're lyin' to me, and you're talkin' back!"

"And you're swearing."

Trapper's eyes widened. "What?"

Becky blinked, her face a picture of innocence. "You swore."

"I did not!"

"Twice."

"When?"

"Just now. You said 'shit' and then you said–"

"Becky!"

"You said it first!"

"Dad! I need a pencil sharpener!"

"Yeah, in a minute, honey!"

"Dad, I need it!"

"Kathy!" Trapper heard his voice rise. He saw Kathy's lip begin to wobble before she turned back to the table and bowed her head over her unfinished homework. He faltered, hesitating in the middle of the room, caught between comforting one daughter and scolding the other. He took a deep breath. "Please, don't cry honey. I'll be with you in a minute." He raised a finger. "Becky. I ain't about to go playin' detective, but if I find out you had your homework all this time, I'm gonna be havin' words with your mother. Lyin' ain't right! I brought you up better'n to lie, an' I don't expect to hear you tellin' me stories! Ya got it?!"

Becky neither shrugged, nor nodded, nor made any reply to what he had just said. Instead, she simply turned her head gracefully, and, with perfect diction (just like her mother) softly stated: "There's damp in the bathroom here, you know."

Trapper squinted at her in confusion. "What?!" It took him a moment to understand her meaning, but Becky was swift to hammer it home.

"Why did you leave your old place again?"

Her words shot a bolt of icy terror right through him. His daughter knew he was lying… his precious twelve year old girl knew he was hiding something. He couldn't hold her gaze. He looked away, staring at the floor, wishing it would open up and swallow him. Becky continued to look right back at him.

"What was that you said about lying?" she asked, her voice as sweet as syrup.

Trapper froze, his blood running cold. He no longer had an answer. Instead, he simply tossed her magazine back onto the couch. "Read your goddamned comic book." He retreated back to the table.

A gentle snoring was emanating from the bed when Trapper crept into the bedroom. The girls were occupied with a couple of board games, and he'd managed to steal a moment to check on the only patient he ever had these days. He placed a glass of water and a box of pills on the nightstand and glanced over.

Hawkeye was bundled up in his old navy cardigan and then rolled up in the blankets like a giant cannelloni. He looked ridiculous. He also looked far too warm.

Trapper sat down beside him and gently shook his shoulder. "Hawk? Wake up?"

Stirring, Hawkeye wiggled in his cocoon. "Is it time for school already?"

Unable to tell whether the comment was humour or delirium, Trapper ignored it. Instead, he held the back of his hand to Hawkeye's forehead. "You're still too damned hot."

"Some guys have just got it…" Hawkeye addressed the ceiling from underneath closed eyelids.

Ignoring him again, Trapper set about unwrapping the Hawkeye-roll. "Come on, let's get you out of this."

Hawkeye whined in protest as he was rolled out of his cosy nest. "But I'm cold, Trapper!"

Trapper winced. "Quieten down, would ya?"

"Aw, Trapper! Don't take my blanky!" Hawkeye's limbs flailed like wet noodles.

"Ya got a fever! Need to get your temperature down. C'mon!" Pulling Hawkeye into a sitting position, Trapper tugged at his cardigan, and Hawkeye, flopping around like a ragdoll, offered little resistance as he was stripped.

"If I'd known you were going to take my clothes off, I'd have worn my good underwear."

"You don't own any good underwear. Here, take these." Trapper carefully arranged the tartan blanket across Hawkeye's lap, handed him the pills he'd brought, and the glass of water, and rose from the bed, Hawkeye's confiscated cardigan tucked under his arm. "I'll be back with some soup in an hour or so. An' no wrappin' yourself up like an egg roll while I'm gone! Gotta get that fever under control!"

He pressed a hand to Hawkeye's scalding forehead once more. Hawkeye stared up at him, glassy eyed. "Aren't you gonna do that thing again?"

"What thing?"

"That thing where you kiss my forehead to see if I've got a fever? Like you said your mother used to?"

Trapper winced. Something didn't seem right – not with the girls in the room next door. "Maybe later."

"Trapper?"

"Take your pills. I gotta get back."

Hawkeye's head was already dropping back, his eyes closing. "I still remember that, you know. Back in Korea… when you got sick. You said your mother used to kiss your forehead… The way you looked at me…"

"Hawkeye?" Trapper lingered by the door, his hand already on the door-handle, eager to get back.

Hawkeye looked up. "Huh?"

"The pills?"

"Oh, yeah." Hawkeye gamely swallowed his medicine, and took a long, refreshing sip of water. He hadn't realised how thirsty he was! The rest vanished in a few short gulps. Sated, Hawkeye sighed, slumping back into his pillows, his breath steaming up the now-empty glass as he cradled it on his chest. He stared into its depths with half-closed eyes, his mind, already floating in a haze of fever-induced fogginess, wandering back to Korea; to the sight of Trapper John McIntyre, then his bunkie of less than three months, sitting on an army cot with his boots half laced because he was too sick to dress himself. Hawkeye had felt his forehead, and even then he'd been certain Trapper had leaned over so slightly into his touch as he checked for a fever. 'Mother used to kiss my forehead to find out...' He could hear the words now as if they'd been spoken in this very room, at this very minute. Hawkeye couldn't help but smile. "I think that was the first time I'd ever thought about kissing you," he pondered out loud as a warm smile crossed his face at the memory.

His confession elicited no response. Trapper had already gone.

Trapper emerged from the bedroom, pulling the door closed behind him. He felt like a child sneaking into the house after staying out after curfew! Glancing over, he saw Kathy and Becky engrossed in their board game, and he breathed a sigh of relief. Neither one of them looked up at him. Hopefully, he wouldn't have to make up any excuses.

It wasn't the best visit ever. A cold winter rain was now beating viciously against the windows, sapping yet more warmth from the apartment, and rendering any outside activities impossible. All trips out had been cancelled, leaving Trapper with no choice but to wheel out the Monopoly board and the Scrabble set. With Hawkeye at home, he had been hoping to spend as little time in the apartment as possible, but the weather had scuppered that plan. He now had two rather bored girls on his hands, and a growing uneasy feeling that his two worlds were veering far too close to a collision course.

Approaching with small, hesitant steps, he watched the girls play: Becky slumped sideways at the board, one leg crossed over the other with her foot bouncing impatiently, and Kathy kneeling on her chair to reach across for her token. She made her move, and looked up. "It's your move, Dad."

Suddenly, Trapper felt uneasy slipping back into the game so soon after taking time out to deal with Hawkeye. The word 'contaminated' ghosted across his mind, and he shunted it away into a corner. And yet, he still could not bring himself to sit down beside his children and play. "Uh… some other time. I need to get dinner ready."

"Ew! What's that?"

Trapper glanced at Becky, his brow creasing. "Huh?" Then he saw what she was looking at. His hand tightened around Hawkeye's scruffy old navy cardigan, now filthy with ground in dirt and covered in snags and pulls from years of wear. Trapper raised his hand. "It's a cardigan."

Becky wrinkled her nose. "Is that yours?"

"Whose d'ya think it is?" The question came out a little too sharply, a little too accusing, and Trapper winced. "Sorry. I was just… I was a little cold, you know… so I went to the bedroom to…" He thumbed in the direction of the bedroom, but his words faltered. Lying to his girls did not come naturally. Words caught in his gullet. His eyes didn't want to meet theirs. Instead, he stared at the floor.

"It is cold in here." Kathy's announcement spared him from having to complete his cover story, but her words pained him. What kind of a father was he? He couldn't even keep his little girls warm and cosy on a cold winter's day! Unbidden, Trapper's mind wandered back to the brownstone house he'd shared with Louise; to the comfortable sitting room with its plush couches and grand old fireplace, in which a fire always burned beautifully every winter.

Now, he looked at Kathy's frowning little face, and berated himself for the hundredth time that day.

"I know, honey, but there's not much I can do."

"Where's your tartan blanky? The McIntyre one?"

Trapper shuddered. 'Keeping daddy's boyfriend warm.' "It's uh… at the dry cleaners." He sniffed and moved away from the table. Listen, why don't you girls move the board over to the fireplace and play there? It'll be warmer. I gotta get dinner ready."

Tugging Hawkeye's cardigan on over his shirt – it was a little too tight on the shoulders, but he'd committed himself to the story now – Trapper moved over to the kitchenette.

"Dad, you look like a homo."

Trapper froze. A cold sweat prickled his skin; the hairs rose on the back of his neck. Already he could feel his pulse quickening, an unwelcome surge of adrenaline rushing into his system as the memory of the last time he'd heard that word replayed in his head: the insult spat at him in the hall of their last apartment building, Hawkeye retaliating with his usual snide comment, and then crying out as the neighbour had cracked him across the face. Trapper had seen red that day, and, in his usual way, he'd avenged Hawkeye until his knuckles were bruised, and the neighbour was semi-conscious.

And now, hearing that word again, he reeled around just as he had done that day – only this time it was his own twelve-year-old daughter he found himself glaring at. Already, his hands were shaking, and he felt like the ground had just given way beneath him. His stomach lurched. Bile rose in his throat. "What did you say?!"

Becky shrugged. "I said you look like a hobo. Since when did you start dressing like an old homeless guy?"

His panic abating, Trapper caught his breath, his hand flying to his throat as the wave of nausea peaked, then settled once more. Embarrassed by his potentially obvious response, he looked away. "Not everybody can afford nice threads," he muttered, shrugging awkwardly in Hawkeye's cardigan. "Go on now, you girls play. I gotta… uh…"

Dinner. Yes, that was it. Soup. Soup in a can. Hopefully, something he couldn't mess up.

The stove was faulty. The soup that promised on the can that it would only take a few minutes kept refusing to heat up because the gas kept cutting out. Eventually, Trapper put Kathy on Flame Watch – a title she decided was fantastic because it sounded like a special knight in a fantasy story whose job was to watch the horizon for dragons – and gradually began to get some decent heat going through the pan.

"It's off again!"

Trapper grabbed the matches. "Thanks, honey."

At last, steam began to rise, and bubbles began to form in the creamy contents of the pan. After a few more minutes, Trapper declared dinner as much of a success as it was going to be. "I think we're all done, my little Watcher of the Flame!" Kathy giggled and clapped her hands. "Go get your sister, an' wash up, an' we'll eat."

While Kathy ran off to fetch Becky from the couch, and to wash her hands, while Trapper retrieved the dishes from the oven – pre-heating the crockery was one of the few things he had got the hang of – and laid the table. Becky loped over, dunked her hands in the dishwater, then went to sit down.

"That ain't washin' yer hands, Becky."

Becky rolled her eyes, returned to the kitchen sink, and scrubbed her hands and nails properly. By the time she took her seat at the table, a bowl of steaming hot chicken soup had been laid out before her, with a couple of bread rolls on the side.

"What is this?"

"Chicken soup," Trapper replied quizzically, ladling out a fourth portion for Hawkeye and wondering how he was supposed to sneak it in to him.

"This is canned."

Trapper turned. "So?"

Becky wrinkled her nose as she stared into her bowl, her spoon hovering over the soup like she was poking it to see if it was alive. "Mom always makes soup fresh."

The serving spoon hit the saucepan with a loud clang. "Yeah, well I ain't…" He caught himself as his voice began to raise. He sighed, disappointed in himself yet again. "I'm sorry, Becky. I'm not your mother, an' I'm not the greatest cook in the world, but I'm tryin' my best here, okay? So can we please just sit down an' eat like a family an' not… snipe at each other across the table?"

Becky dropped her gaze to the table. She gave no reply, but silence was better than a scathing retort or another insult, and Trapper turned back to spooning out soup as Becky took a tentative mouthful.

"Is it alright for ya?"

A non-committal shrug. "It's okay I guess." She tried another spoonful. "Where's Kathy?"

Trapper glanced about the room. "I don't know. Kathy!" There was no response, and Trapper felt a swell of panic as he envisioned Kathy stumbling across a sleeping Hawkeye… His eyes darted to the bedroom door. No, it was still closed. "KATHY!" At last, Kathy emerged from the bathroom, giggling as she skipped across the living room. The wide grin on her face revealed the gap in her front teeth where her second left incisor had fallen out a few days ago. She was clutching something behind her back. "What have you got there, honey bunch? What's so funny?"

Snorting with laughter, Kathy held out a magazine – and Trapper's heart leapt into his mouth. One of Hawkeye's magazines.

Whipping it out of her hands, Trapper flushed bright red and tucked the offending literature under his arm. "Where did you find this?"

"Next to the bathtub! Daddy, it's funny!"

Grinding his teeth, Trapper glared in the direction of the bedroom door. 'Hawkeye…'

"There's people in there with no clothes on!"

Trapper grimaced. "Yeah, I know. Go eat your soup, honey."

Twisting the magazine tightly in his hands so not an inch of skin was showing, Trapper shoved it into a drawer and slammed it closed. He didn't even bother to voice an explanation as he picked up the extra bowl of soup and stalked into the bedroom.

Hawkeye was sitting up in bed when Trapper walked in with his supper. The meds he'd taken seemed to have helped, and he was now a little more lucid, propped up on his pillows with his nose buried in 'Last of the Mohicans' – his usual ritual for when he was sick.

He looked up and smiled. "Hi, honey."

The bowl of soup was dumped unceremoniously on the nightstand without a word.

"Oh, you wonderful man! Thank you, oh bringer of sustenance to the ailing and needy! Come, my beloved caretaker, let me kiss your healing hands!" He reached out and grabbed Trapper's hand, but it was pulled out of his grasp before he could start smooching it. Taken aback, Hawkeye looked up. "What's eating you?"

Scowling, Trapper glanced at the door and then replied in a low hiss: "You left one o' your goddamned magazines in the bathroom! That's what!"

"Oh." Hawkeye shrank into his pillows.

"Kathy picked it up."

"Oh, shit. Trapper, I'm sorry!"

"Yeah, you'd better be!"

"I'm not normally so stupid! It's probably because I'm not feeling so good, and I just…"

A pang of sympathy took the edge off Trapper's anger, and his scowl softened. "Yeah, well… try to be a little more careful in future, huh?"

"I cross my heart." Hawkeye genuinely did cross his heart - twice. "Did she freak out? Ask questions?"

"Not as such..." Trapper scowled and looked over his shoulder at the bedroom door. "Mostly she thought it was funny."

"Well, that's something. I guess that's both of us off the hook." He stroked Trapper's arm gingerly. "So, don't worry."

"I'm trying not to," Trapper muttered, taking a deep breath. He moved closer, his anger ebbing away a little, replaced with his usual bedside manner. "How ya feelin', anyhow."

"Better." Again, he reached out for Trapper's hand. "Here, feel for yourself." This time, Trapper let his hand be held. His palm found Hawkeye's cheek, and his fingers swept through his hair. Strands that were once ebony were slowly turning to silver as the years crept on. Now, at last, Trapper leaned down and kissed Hawkeye's forehead.

Hawkeye's eyelashes fluttered, and he tilted his head up, leaning close. "Do I have a fever, doc?"

"Not as bad as it was." Trapper kissed him again, then stood. "Eat your soup. I need to get back."

"Yes sir, Herr Doktor!" Hawkeye gave a mock salute and picked up his bowl. Trapper returned to the kitchen feeling marginally less on edge.

The rain continued to fall, and the afternoon continued to plod on. The girls were losing interest in their games, and Trapper had all but given up yearning for the rain to stop just so he could take them out somewhere. He hadn't wanted the day to be dull! Every moment with his girls was so precious, but as he watched Becky prod at her Scrabble letters and huff impatiently, he couldn't help but realise that the feeling was not mutual.

Another feeble rearrangement of letters, another sigh from Becky. "What time is it?"

Her irritation was palpable, and Trapper felt it right in his chest. "Half four," he mumbled into his Scrabble letters. "Are you gonna play a word?"

Snorting, Becky fumbled her letters onto the board. "There. There's my word. 'Mildew'."

Kathy looked up and frowned. "What's that mean?"

"It's that black stuff on the ceiling in Dad's bathroom."

Another chip was taken out of Trapper's confidence, but he resisted the urge to scold her. Raising his voice had achieved nothing anyway. Instead, he turned to Kathy. "You got a word, honey?"

Kathy pouted at her letters. "No."

"You want a hand?"

"No."

They waited, while Kathy continued to stare at the board and wrinkle her little nose in thought.

"Do you wanna pass?"

"No." She scowled, sighed, and slumped back in her seat. "Dad, why don't you have TV?"

"Uh… well, I don't really like TV, honey. I think it's more fun to play games together, like this."

Kathy pouted, indicating that she did not agree. "But everybody else has a TV!"

"He can't afford it."

"But he could afford it when he was a doctor!"

"He isn't a doctor any more. Now he's broke." Becky flicked one of the letters off the board and across the room.

Becky's announcement was met with silence. Trapper's head dropped ever so slightly as he pretended to study his letters. Beside him, Kathy's blonde curly head tilted up to him. "Is that true, Dad?"

"You know, it ain't really polite to talk about–"

"Why don't you just tell the truth, Dad?" Becky fixed him with an emphatic stare, her hands gesturing over her letters in a way that suddenly reminded Trapper of Hawkeye when he got in a rage. "It's not like it's a big secret! You're poor. You live in a slum! Half your clothes have holes in! You never take us anywhere, or buy us anything nice! Just admit it – you're broke. And it's embarrassing watching you make stuff up all the time."

With an air of finality, she turned back to her letters.

Trapper's lip twitched, and his eyes stung as he tried to stare at the board.

"I don't wanna play this game anymore." Kathy pushed her letters away.

"This ain't a slum." Trapper's voice was measured, his tone controlled. He looked up, fixing his eldest daughter with a stern but calm gaze. "I know it ain't exactly the Hilton–"

"It's a dive."

"Hey, I ain't done!" Trapper raised a finger. "Let me tell you somethin'. I grew up in a slum! You know what a slum is? It's families of six or seven livin' in one lousy room with a leaky ceilin' an' no runnin' water! It's runnin' across a yard in the pourin' rain in the middle of the night to use the can, an' findin' four other people linin' up in front o' ya because there's only one in the whole buildin'! It's wakin' up in the AM to find a rat gnawin' on your boot, an' not even havin' the heart to throw somethin' at it, because even as a little kid, you know what it's like to be that hungry! That's a slum, Becky! It's everybody that society gave up on bein' shoved in together in a buildin' that ain't fit for animals 'cos they ain't got two cents to rub together! Now, maybe I ain't made a lotta noise before about where I come from, an' maybe that was a mistake, but that's how I grew up! That's how me an' your grandparents an' a whole lotta other people lived – an' some people still do. So yeah, I know this place ain't much compared to where you live with your mother, but it's mine, an' compared to what I came from, it's palatial!"

Becky stared at him. For the first time that day, she looked genuinely contrite. There was no retort, no rolling of eyes, no snort of derision.

"Are you really poor, Dad?" Kathy leaned closer, lowering her voice as if the conversation might be overheard.

"Well, yes I am, honey. An' there ain't no shame in that. You'll meet a lotta people who ain't got a lotta dough as you go through life. An' your old man is one of 'em. Now, there'll be a lotta people in this world who look down on people like me, but I don't wanna hear of my two girls doin' that. I want ya to think on that a little when you go back to your big house in the city." His declaration was met with silence, but Trapper's heart swelled a little at what he'd just said. Hawkeye probably would have said it better. Hawkeye would have made an impassioned speech and probably managed to shoehorn a few other issues in besides. But Trapper wasn't that articulate. He said what he had to, and by God he hoped it worked!

Kathy blinked at him, like she was trying to make sense of this. "But… you had money back when you were a doctor. Why don't you just go back to being a doctor again? Didn't you like it?"

"I loved it, honey! Takin' care o' people, makin' 'em better… It was wonderful. An' I miss it, but… I can't go back."

"But why?"

Kathy's face was appealing, her tone shrill and insistent, but this was something Trapper couldn't explain. Several alternatives fluttered through his head – vague half-stories that would only lead to more questions, or phoney cover-ups that would either throw them off the scent or brand him forever a liar in his daughters minds – but he couldn't do that either. He couldn't admit the truth to his girls, but he couldn't lie to them either. Not again. Not anymore.

"I uh… I… I don't wanna talk about it. It's kinda personal, an' I… I'd rather not…"

He trailed off weakly, staring at the table, shame welling up inside him. The squares on the board became blurred as tears of embarrassment fogged his vision. He couldn't tell which part shamed him the most: the reason for his dismissal, or the fact that he was hiding it from his girls. Even being as honest as he could, he felt like he was living a double life! One half playing Scrabble with his kids while the other was locked away with Hawkeye just the other side of the bedroom door; with the wedding ring sat in the pot on the dresser waiting to be put on so he could put it on and be That Person again as soon as they were gone.

In his mind's eye, he tried to picture himself explaining the truth to the girls, but his imagination conjured up an expression of disgust on Becky's face, and of confusion and fear on Kathy's, and he just couldn't do it. And, so, Trapper remained silent.

He looked up. Kathy was watching him with that same look he'd imagined, only her confusion was evident: why was Daddy crying?

Wiping his eyes, Trapper looked over at his eldest. She was sat rigid in her chair, her back straight, her hands tucked under her knees. She was swaying slightly, her face twisted into a harsh frown, but tears were glistening in her eyes too. He couldn't imagine what assumptions she must be making in the light of his silence!

He tried to find the words to dispel her unease, but none came to mind. He floundered, opening and closing his mouth a few times, choking on truths and half-truths and outright lies. No matter what he said, it would never be good enough.

At last, Becky spoke: "Is it time to go home yet?"

Trapper sighed, her words a rescue and a crushing insult all at once.

"Yeah, yeah it is." He pushed his chair back and got to his feet. He didn't even look at his watch.

The drive back to Louise's handsome brownstone house was made mostly in silence. Kathy sat on the front seat beside him, and Becky sulked in the back. The rain beat down on the windows of the Oldsmobile, running in cascades down the glass. Trapper was grateful for the noise to take the edge of the uncomfortable quiet.

When they pulled up outside the house Trapper had once shared with Louise, the lights were already on. The front door opened at the sound of the car pulling up, and Trapper's ex-wife appeared, silhouetted in the doorway against the warm orange glow of her comfortable home. A man appeared at her side bearing an umbrella; a man Trapper knew only by name and had yet to meet, but was now part of his daughters' family by marriage in a way that Hawkeye could never be, whether Trapper approved of his presence or not.

"You got everythin'?" Trapper asked, twisting around in the driver's seat to address Becky.

"Too late now if I haven't," Becky replied with a shrug.

"If I find anythin', I'll bring it over."

"'Kay."

Turning to face his youngest, Trapper managed a weak smile. "You okay, my princess? Sorry we didn't get to do much. Maybe when the weather's nicer–"

He was interrupted by a sharp rap on the window from Louise, who was now hovering beside the car with her umbrella.

Kathy glanced over her shoulder. "Okay! Coming!"

She leaned over and hugged her father. Trapper was almost overwhelmed by the sudden gesture – he had learned over recent years to treasure these moments – and he barely had time to kiss her cheek before she was gone again. The car door slammed in her wake as Louise ushered her towards the house.

Glancing up into the rear view mirror, Trapper caught a glimpse of Becky. Sat in the back of the car, in the dim, grey half-light of the evening, she looked so small. So young. So innocent. Her teeth worried at her lower lip, and she was staring out of the window as if deep in thought. He couldn't blame her – there were so many unanswered questions. He didn't have the heart to disappoint her with answers.

"Sorry I yelled at ya today." The apology was mumbled towards the rear view mirror, partly out of shame, and partly because he didn't want his waiting ex-wife to hear him admit to such a thing. "I got a lot on my mind right now, an' my patience ain't what it used to be."

"Dad?"

He turned around once again, surprised to hear her appealing tone.

"What is it, sweetie?"

She was looking straight at him, her expression unreadable, her thoughts a mystery. The silence dragged on. At last, she shook her head. "Never mind."

And with those words, she opened the car door to the dismal evening, the soft patter of rain a gentle melody to her departure. Then, she too was gone. Through the rain-drenched windows, Trapper watched Becky join her mother and sister on the little porch. Louise's new husband ushered them inside, and, one by one, they each turned and embraced him, Kathy standing on her tippy-toes to do so.

Trapper watched, his hands tightening on the steering wheel, a stab of jealousy surging through him. Becky didn't hug him like that anymore. Part of him was glad they liked their step-father – he detested the thought of them sharing their home with someone they neither liked nor trusted – but suddenly that hug was all the evidence he needed that he had been usurped as the most important man in his children's lives. Louise's new husband was more of a father figure to them now than he was. Trapper was little more than a convenient babysitter to take them on for a few hours here and there when they had other things to be doing. And Hawkeye, meanwhile, was nothing but a dirty secret to be hidden away or removed from the apartment so Trapper could perform his function.

For a brief moment, Trapper imagined Hawkeye in that stranger's place, hugging his girls as if they were his own, smiling and joking with them, welcoming them into the home he shared with their father, open and honest and warm as he always was. Hawkeye would be great with kids…

It was a nice fantasy, but it would never happen.

The front door closed; the warm, orange glow vanished; Trapper was alone.

Hawkeye was in the bathroom when Trapper got home. The steam rising from beneath the door was a clear indication that he was feeling better and had decided to take a bath. Either that or his fever was so horrendous he's spontaneously combusted, but the gentle crooning coming from within suggested Hawkeye was alive and well and murdering Doris Day.

"When I grew up and fell in love," Hawkeye's baritone accompanied the tinny sound of the wireless, "I asked my sweetheart, what lies ahead? Will there be rainbows day after day?"

Normally, Trapper would have gone in and sat beside him on the edge of the tub, flicking suds at him, but he didn't feel like it today. Instead, he took himself off to tidy up the apartment.

The Scrabble and Monopoly boards were packed away, shunted under the couch until God-knows-when. His coat hung up in the corner. And now, at last, Trapper retrieved his wedding band from the dresser where he had left it.

Slumped on the couch, he rolled the gold ring between his thumb and forefinger. It had been five years since Hawkeye had presented it to him, kneeling on the floor of their first rented apartment. Studying the perfect circle of gold, you couldn't see the point where it had been altered; where a chunk of precious metal had been cut away and discarded, the ends melded seamlessly together. The deception was complete.

He always felt strange for an hour or so after the girls left, almost loath to return to his normal life.

'Normal.'

The word ghosted through his head like a spectre from the past. What was 'normal' to him? Was he ever such a thing these days, such a man, as a 'normal' one? Normality had ceased for Trapper John McIntyre the instant he'd set foot in Korea.

A rush of water and a crescendo of 'Que sera sera' indicated the end of Hawkeye's bath, and Trapper fiddled awkwardly with his wedding ring, hesitating as he went to put it on. Its removal was part of the pretence, but switching between his two worlds wasn't as simple as just slipping the ring on and off his finger. It was like he needed some sort of period of adjustment as he went back from being the father of two young girls to the lover of his former bunkmate. He sat awhile, holding the wedding ring tightly, willing himself to put it on.

The wireless went silent. The bathroom door opened. Trapper looked up, and, furtively, he shoved the ring back onto the finger of his left hand. "Hiya, Hawk."

Hawkeye mumbled in response as he traversed the apartment, wrapped in his black floral robe, still a little woozy.

"How are ya doin', buddy?"

Hawkeye gave him a look. "'Buddy?' What kind of–" He broke off, yelling as he hopped up and down, grabbing his foot. "What the hell was that?"

Trapper scanned the floor, and located the culprit: A small, cream-coloured square, with four prongs on the corners, upturned and lying in wait for another naked foot. He picked it up. "It's an M," he declared, tossing it onto the coffee table. 'M for 'mildew'…'

"Marvellous…" Hawkeye flopped onto the couch beside Trapper. His head found Trapper's shoulder, but Trapper remained unmoving. He did not gather Hawkeye in his arms, or turn around so he could snuggle closer. He just sat, staring across the room.

"How d'ya feel?" he forced himself to ask.

"Better. I think my fever's lifted. The soup helped, and the bath was heaven. God, it feels good to be clean."

Trapper grunted in response. He hadn't felt clean in a long time.

Beside him, Hawkeye drew closer, wrapping an arm around Trapper's waist. "How was your day?" he coaxed gently. "Kathy and Becky okay?"

"They're alright." Trapper frowned, thinking on the afternoon that has passed, of the raised voices and lies and half-truths. "They asked why I'd moved again."

The confession drew a knowing look from Hawkeye, like he wasn't even surprised. "What did you say?"

Trapper inhaled shakily and bit his lip. "I lied. I looked into my little girl's eyes, an' I lied, like the deceivin' son of a bitch I am."

"Oh, Trap…"

"An' they didn't believe a single word of it."

Sitting up, Hawkeye looked at Trapper, watching the tears pool in the corners of his eyes, and fall in glistening trails down his face. Gently, he pressed a kiss to Trapper's temple, tasting salt. "You can't keep on like this, Trapper."

"I know." Trapper sniffed, nodded, and wiped his face on his sleeve. "That's why I came clean."

Hawkeye sat bolt upright, his eyes widening. "You did?"

"Yeah…"

Hawkeye grabbed his arm. "About us?"

Trapper laughed and shook his head. "No. Not that. I mean… about my financial situation."

"Oh."

"About why I live in an old warehouse with mould in the bathroom an' damp patches on the ceiling."

"Oh uh… that damp patch is now officially a leak. I thought you'd like to know…"

"Oh, great!"

"I shoved a bucket under it. Sorry, carry on."

"Louise an' her new guy, they're rollin' in money, an' I know all their friends are. There's a lotta stuff Kathy an' Becky ain't ever gonna see, so I figured it might do 'em some good to know how the other half live, where it ain't all wine an' roses." He managed a weak smile. "It felt good. They might learn somethin'."

Hawkeye took Trapper's hand, kissed it, then wrapped it around himself and snuggled close. "Well, that's good."

"I just hope it's enough." Trapper sighed and tilted his gaze skyward, his head resting on the back of the couch as Hawkeye laid his head on his chest, his wet hair brushing Trapper's throat. "They're gettin' older, Hawk, an' they're smart. They're gonna start noticin' things, askin' questions, and I don't know if I'm gonna be able to give 'em answers."

"Trapper?" Hawkeye's voice was quiet, hesitant.

Trapper lifted his head. "What is it?"

Raising a hand, Hawkeye, with his arms still weak and shaking from his illness, pointed across the room. "Were those still out the whole time?"

Following where Hawkeye was pointing, Trapper's gaze settled upon the bookcase on the far side of the living room. There, carefully laid out as they were the day they had first moved in only a short while ago, were a small selection of holiday photographs, taken in Maine that summer. Pictures of Trapper snoozing in the back yard in Crabapple Cove, of Daniel Pierce in his fishing gear and wellingtons, and of Hawkeye playing on the beach in his swimming shorts, a childlike grin on his face.

A cold, sick feeling of dread took hold of Trapper's insides, and he tensed, trembling slightly as he looked at the pictures one by one.

"It's okay." Hawkeye gave his hand a squeeze. "Forget I mentioned it. They probably didn't even notice. Too busy having fun with their dad." His head returned to its usual spot on Trapper's chest. "Don't worry about it."

Trapper, meanwhile, returned his gaze to the ceiling as he fought to swallow the bile in his throat, and control the panic that snaked around his chest, sinking its ever-growing tendrils into his heart. "Yeah…" Trapper said weakly, his fingers tensing on Hawkeye's shoulder. "Yeah, you're probably right."