Korea – September, 1951

Trapper was just drifting off to sleep when he felt his blanket lift back, and a warm, skinny body slip into the cot beside him. Dozy as he was, he offered only a half-hearted protest: "Knock it off, Hawkeye. I'm beat!" But the roaming hands that massaged his aching shoulders knew just how to coax new life into him, even at this late hour, and sleep began to lose its appeal to his tired muscles. His mind, however, was less convinced. "C'mon, Hawk, this is dumb. Anyone could come walkin' in, an' how are we gonna explain this?"

"No-one's gonna walk in." Hawkeye's voice was muffled, his lips far too preoccupied with Trapper's neck to put much effort into forming words. "Frank won't be back from Tokyo 'til lunchtime tomorrow. We'd be crazy not to make the most of this."

Trapper sighed. Blue eyes gazed up at him as a patch of moonlight caught Hawkeye's eager face. He quirked an eyebrow and grinned, waiting for permission to continue. Trapper reached out, cupping his cheek gently as he kissed him. "Why can I never resist you?"

He felt Hawkeye smile into the kiss, and then he felt all manner of other, pleasant things as clothes and underclothes were shed, hands made their way over hot, sweat-slicked skin, and their breath hitched and echoed in the tiny tent. It was a hurried, awkward tryst in a tiny, cramped space, but alone time was precious in this place, and it seemed foolish not to waste the opportunity. Trapper's army cot creaked under them, hardly designed for such activities.

Hawkeye was nothing if not inventive, and a lover of his talent and experience could turn the most hurried, furtive tumble into a thoroughly pleasant experience. At last, panting and sated, Trapper gathered Hawkeye in his arms, smiling contentedly. Hawkeye chuckled.

"See – I told you it was a good idea."

The noise that awoke them shattered what should have been a pleasant post-coital snooze. Hawkeye was awake first, sitting bolt upright, squinting into the darkness, unseeing, waiting for his eyes to adjust. The Swamp was pitch black, the moon having vanished behind the clouds, leaving the camp in darkness. Panicking, he shook the still-stirring Trapper. "Trapper, wake up! Did you hear something?"

Trapper rubbed his eyes. The tent was still and silent, and totally, utterly dark. The camp was dead, everybody sleeping, no doubt, save for Klinger, whose court shoes could be heard crunching in the distance as he walked his patrol. Whatever had startled Hawkeye was either long gone, or a figment of his imagination.

"You're dreamin'," Trapper muttered, getting comfy again and pulling Hawkeye back into his arms for a comforting snuggle. "Go back to sleep."

"I'm telling you!" Hawkeye pulled away, swatting at Trapper's hands. "Just do me a favour and check, would you?" He grabbed insistently at Trapper's arm. "Come on, come on! Just get the light!"

Sighing, Trapper sat up beside him and groped for the light switch. On the third go he found it. He pulled the cord, and the lamp flickered into life. The tent was immediately illuminated by the dim light of the weak bulb, and, along with it, the frozen, stunned figure of Frank Burns, standing in the middle of it with his mouth hanging open, a shattered flashlight at his feet.

It was more than evident that the flashlight hitting the ground was the sound that had awoken them, and that the uncompromising situation Frank had found them in was the sight that had caused him to drop it. Frank stared at them. Hawkeye stared at Frank. Trapper dropped his head and stared at the blankets. The silence seemed to go on forever, the distant crickets chirping their melody in the still night air. Frank's eyes were wide as saucers, and Hawkeye shifted uncomfortably under his condemning gaze, painfully aware of Trapper's naked body pressed up against him under their thin little blanket; of how this must look...

In the end, Frank spoke first – if you could call it that. "You… you…!"

Hawkeye couldn't bear to let him get any further, so he did the first thing that came to mind: he laughed. He threw his head back and launched into the best performance of hysterical cackling he'd ever managed in his life. He put his heart and soul into it – he channelled every ounce of energy and dramatic talent he had in him – and as he 'calmed down' he pointed at Frank, still convulsing with giggles. "Oh, Frank – your face! That was classic!"

Frank stared at them, unmoving. His eyes flickered from Hawkeye to Trapper, and, as Hawkeye's boisterous laughter died down, Trapper glanced up. He was petrified. Frozen in the headlights of Frank's disapproving glare, his whole life flashed before him: everything he could lose; his wife; his daughters; his career. Everything hinged on this moment, but, try as he might, he couldn't force himself to play along with Hawkeye's charade. He knew – he just knew – Frank wouldn't buy it. The tent reeked of sex and sweat, Frank hadn't been due home for hours, and Hawkeye was sporting the best collection of hickies Trapper had ever bestowed upon his pretty little neck. He couldn't hold Frank's gaze. His face flushed with heat, tears stung his eyes, and he dropped his head again. Overcome with shame, he looked back down at the blanket, which was the only thing sparing their last shred of dignity. "Shit…"

"I knew it!" Frank was practically beside himself with fury and self-righteousness. He jabbed an accusing finger at each of them. "I knew there was something wrong with you two degenerates! I'm telling Colonel Blake!" Turning on his heel, Burns shot out of the Swamp.

"Frank, wait!" Hawkeye was already scrambling off Trapper's cot and snatching his robe up from the floor. "Thanks a lot, Trapper! Would it have killed you to maybe try and play along?"

Trapper couldn't think clearly. His mind was languishing in a thick fog of shock and fury, and he was only vaguely aware of the door to the Swamp banging closed as Hawkeye pursued the apoplectic Major Burns out into the compound. He had to do something.

Shaking his head, he jumped to his feet and pulled his pants on. The night air nipped at him, and he felt a surge of adrenaline as he strode outside, shirtless and barefooted. He was dimly aware of lights going on in the surrounding tents, and the personnel from the night shift beginning to gather in doorways of the hospital. Hawkeye was already several paces ahead of him, doing his best to obstruct Frank on his determined, triumphant march to Henry's tent. Hawkeye was talking – wasn't he always? – only this time he had a desperate, manic edge to his voice. Leave it to Hawkeye to be able to talk his way out of anything, but Trapper knew this wasn't going to cut it. Frank was on the war path, and Hawkeye's usual cutting verbal sparring had been reduced to thinly veiled pleading. Trapper steeled himself, and, catching up with them in a few strides, he grabbed Frank by the shoulder and spun him round. Frank's boots caught in the dirt and he stumbled.

"Get your hands off me, you pervert!" Burns snapped, his voice loud enough to make Hawkeye cringe.

But Trapper wouldn't be cowed. He pulled himself up to his full height as he approached, his fists clenched at his sides. "Lemme make one thing clear, Frank. You breathe a word of this to Henry, and I'll deck you so hard you hit the ground in 'Frisco. You got me?"

"You don't frighten me!" Frank did, in fact, sound very frightened.

But then, so did Hawkeye, as he moved to step between them. "C'mon – don't do this."

But Trapper was on a roll. The combination of terror over their exposure, and the frightened look on Hawkeye's face had awoken something primal and protective in him. A desperate, instinctive violence took him over, and he grabbed the Major's shirt front in both fists. "I mean it! I'll even mail your teeth back to Fort Wayne as a souvenir!"

"Trapper!" It was Hawkeye's terrified voice that stopped him; Hawkeye's hand on his arm, pulling him away. "Trapper, quit it – you'll just make things worse!"

"You're not seriously defendin' this weasel, are ya?" Trapper stared at Hawkeye in disbelief.

"No, you moron – I'm defending you! You think I wanna see you up on charges for assault?!"

Distracted momentarily from his campaign to punch Frank's lights out, Trapper glanced at Hawkeye, who now planted himself firmly between him and Burns, pleading with Trapper to put his fists down. At last, Trapper relaxed, if for no other reason than the fact that he wasn't about to fight his way past Hawkeye for anything.

Burns seemed to view this as a personal victory, his apparent fear melting away as he realised that Trapper was not, in fact, about to hit him. "Smart move, McIntyre." He was actually gloating, even as he used Hawkeye as a human shield. "You should listen to your boyfriend more often."

Wincing, Trapper stared at the ground, his earlier boldness failing him. A crowd was gathering in the compound, and Frank's voice was uncomfortably loud. Hawkeye saw him cringe, and pretended it didn't hurt. He turned away, focussing on Frank as more and more people gathered around them to see what the fuss was. "Frank," he said gently, extending a hand, approaching warily, "come on, you don't want to do this."

"Sure I do!" Frank swatted him away. "You think I owe you guys anything after everything you put me through? All your jokes, your pranks, your comments about me in surgery! Do you have any idea how long I've been waiting so I could pin something on you?! I've been dreaming about it for months, but I never thought I'd get something like this – something so depraved." He gestured to the pair of them, and Hawkeye pulled his robe a little tighter, self-conscious and shaking. "This is perfect!" Frank giggled, almost delirious in his sadistic glee at their downfall. "It's like Christmas! It's a gift! And nothing is gonna stop me! I'll see you two hang from the highest yardarm in Korea!"

Frank turned to walk away, and Hawkeye made one last, desperate grab for him. "Frank, don't!"

It all happened so fast. He had a grip on Frank's sleeve and then Frank wheeled around, screaming at him, calling him a string of obscenities. And then there was a burst of pain up his right leg and he hit the ground, skidding in the dirt as Frank pulled away. Even Frank was shocked, stopping and staring as Hawkeye cried out, cradling his leg. Trapper was at his side in an instant.

"I'm okay, I'm okay…" He winced as he moved, and, with Trapper's help, Hawkeye stood, his legs trembling, painfully aware that Trapper was holding him in the middle of the compound, in front of the growing crowds. Not that it mattered anymore. Not that any of it mattered. He shot Frank one last look of loathing, shook his head and turned away, limping back to the Swamp.

Trapper watched him make his retreat, turned, and glared at Frank. Charges be damned – he'd be facing those anyway. Nobody hurt Hawkeye on his watch.

He was barely even aware of punching Frank in the kisser. The next thing he knew he was walking swiftly back to the Swamp as the crowd gasped and murmured. His knuckles were smarting something awful. Frank clearly wasn't out for the count – Trapper could hear him shrieking in amongst the chatter: "Did you see that? Did you see what he did?! And Pierce too, – he grabbed me! Not just homosexuals, but violent, too!"

He couldn't process it. Frank's ranting seemed to be coming at him from the end of a long tunnel. He ducked into the Swamp, and tried to just block it all out.

There, he found Hawkeye perched on the end of his cot, arms wrapped around himself, swaying slightly as if in shock. He was white as a sheet, grubby from landing in the dirt, the sleeve of his robe was ripped halfway off, and his legs scratched and dirty. Hawkeye wasn't built for fighting – one little brawl and he was a mess. Blood ran down his right shin, and Trapper shuddered.

"That leg looks nasty."

Hawkeye raised his head. "Huh? What?"

Trapper pointed a shaking finger in the direction of the wound. "He got you real good." His voice sounded detached and hollow, like it wasn't his own. He had to do something. If he didn't, he might well throw up.

There was nothing he could do to stop Frank now – nothing he could do to save them – but he could do this. Wordlessly, he bent to pick up Hawkeye's emergency medic's bag, slipped seamlessly into doctor-mode, and knelt on the floor between Hawkeye's feet. Outside, he could hear the commotion growing louder. Henry had arrived to try and disperse the crowd, with little success. Over the top of it all, Trapper could hear Frank screeching, using words that made Trapper's gut twist into knots. He pushed the noise to the back of his mind and focussed on Hawkeye's injuries.

His right leg bore a nasty, crescent-shaped gash where Frank had kicked him, the heavy, steel toe of his combat boot having split the skin. His left seemed in better shape, but some of the abrasions from where he'd skidded across the compound were also weeping blood a little. Trapper focused on the former. He poured some rubbing alcohol onto a wad of cotton. "This is gonna hurt." Hawkeye didn't respond, so Trapper carried on and pressed the cotton against his leg. Hawkeye winced, hissing in pain and trying to pull away. Trapper reached up and ran a comforting hand down his arm. "It's okay."

He bandaged the leg, padding it with gauze, and then cleansed the scrapes down his left hand side. Hawkeye at least seemed more focussed now, watching him in fascination, and the whimpering had subsided. "Feel better?" Trapper asked him.

Hawkeye stared at him, his face a mask of stunned, exhausted misery. "This is really it, isn't it?" His words perfectly echoed the question floating around in Trapper's skull. "I mean, he's not gonna back down. We're done for. Everything…"

He fell silent, his head dropping as he ran his hands through his hair, trying to grasp the enormity of what they were facing: their downfall. And at the hands of Frank Burns, no less.

Trapper watched him, kicking himself for not having done more. He should have played along with the excuse Hawkeye had thought up. He should have wrestled Frank to the ground right there and then and made him swear to keep his mouth shut. He should thumped him so hard he forgot what he'd seen when he'd walked in…

It was all moot now. The compound had quietened down, the crowds dispersed. Were they all back in their tents now, whispering about what had transpired only a few minutes ago? Were he and Hawkeye now gossip-fuel for the next week or two? Or longer?

He tried not to think about it. Trying desperately to focus on Hawkeye and not on the shame churning in his guts, Trapper got off his knees and sat on Hawkeye's cot beside him, gathering him in his arms. Hawkeye's skinny body curled into his embrace for comfort, the same way he did for intimacy. He held him like that for the longest time, stroking his hair. He didn't have to say anything. Any words of comfort would be shallow platitudes anyway – they both knew what was coming. All he could do was hold him.

The door opened, and he flinched, but couldn't bring himself to move. He heard Henry's voice before he saw him, and knew what kind of a sight they must have made, as the Colonel sighed despondently. "Oh, Jeez..."

Trapper shuddered, and Hawkeye lifted his head.

Henry stood over them, hands on his hips, a tired frown on his face. Hawkeye reluctantly pulled back from Trapper's comforting arms and gazed up at their commanding officer. Henry didn't look angry. He looked… disappointed. He addressed them both with a weary dejection, but with utter conviction: "It's true, isn't it?"

Hawkeye nodded, and Trapper stared at the floor.