Angel of Mercy

Trapper's shipping out and Hawkeye's out of town. The split could destroy them both, if not for an angel of mercy that holds them together.

Trapper John Macintyre slapped his crumpled discharge papers down on the bar. "I'm getting drunk tonight, Sam."

The bartender raised an eyebrow and reached for a glass from under the counter. "The fast way or the slow way, sir?"

"Better make it quick. They're shipping me out of this popsicle stand tomorrow."

"Congratulations, sir," said Sam, placing a glass of golden liquid before the captain.

"Yeah, this is some send off." He downed the pungent liquid in one gulp and set the glass back down with a click and a sigh. "Keep 'em coming, Sam. I don't wanna walk out of here tonight."

"Yes, sir."

Trapper savored his next drink, letting the alcohol seep into his bones. He'd lost count of all the days he'd spent waiting for these damned papers to come, and now that he had them—right here in his hand—he didn't want to leave.

It was a good place, as far as war zones go—sorry, as far as police action zones go. The scenery wasn't much, but the people were good and the booze got the job done. It didn't seem quite so hellish, now—now that he was on the verge of leaving it behind for good. He'd sort of miss the place—miss the people: Father Mulcahy and Colonel Potter—Ginger, Igor, Sidney, and Sam—Corporal Klinger and his frock of the week. He'd miss Radar and his Teddy bear, and even old Ferret-Face, because what good is a hero without his slime ball adversary. He'd miss all the nurses—boy, would he miss them. And Margret—Hot Lips—he'd miss teasing her even more than he'd miss the nurses. And Hawk…

Boy, did he need to get drunk.

Margret slid on to the seat beside him as his third drink appeared before him. She ordered, noticing the papers on the bar between them.

"You really are leaving us tomorrow, then?"

Trapper snorted into his glass. "So I've been told."

"Hardly the jubilant response I was expecting."

"Surprised me, too. I think I'm gonna miss this shithole after all."

"Well, we'll miss you, too."

Trapper grinned despite himself. "Really. You're going to miss me?"

"Oh, yes. My showers just won't be the same without knowing you're peeking in at me."

Trapper laughed. "Well, I'll pass on the duty before I leave—maybe Klinger?"

"You'll do no such thing!" She tried to glare at him, but somehow she just couldn't hold on to her usual sternness this evening. Maybe because he was leaving and life around the 4077th really wouldn't be the same after his departure.

"We will miss you though. You're a pain in the ass, but some days it's enough of a distraction to make the rest of the pain go away."

Trapper raised his glass to her with a small smirk. "I'll take that as a compliment. Thank you."

She nodded and clinked her glass to his before sipping slowly. "I don't know what Pierce is going to do without you. He's always been such a wild card. Sometimes I think you're the only thing left holding him together."

"Nah—he'll be fine. He's off on his own in Tokyo right now having a hell of a time. He doesn't need me." His tone was cavalier, but his shoulders were rigid and his eyes empty.

Margret reached out a hand to pat his shoulder, feeling it tense under her touch and then relax with a slump. "He would be here. If he knew you were leaving he would drop everything he was doing to get back here as soon as possible. He might not even kiss her goodbye."

Trapper let out a bark of a laugh. "Yeah, if only he answered his goddamn telephone."

She nodded and squeezed his shoulder before letting her hand fall away. "His going to have a temper tantrum when he gets back and you aren't here. You can gloat in the knowledge that's going to be hell in Korea for the next month or so."

"Maybe I'll do that." He finished off another glass and signaled for the next.

"How many have you had?"

"I don't know. Feels like four, but I hope it's five."

Margret shook her head and slid off the barstool. "Sam, cancel that last order."

"Hey now, what do you think you're doing?"

"I'm not sending you home with a hangover. You can do that on your second night. Come walk me home?"

He grumbled mutinously, but picked up his papers, folding them meticulously and placing them carefully into his left breast pocket. He stood up and offered Margret his arm as they made their way to the exit.

They walked in silence for a while. It was a quiet night—a rarity this close to the front lines. Margret paused outside of her tent, staring up at the stars for a moment, wondering if these same stars would be shinning over her companion tomorrow night and the next. She turned her eyes back to him and met his eyes in the shadows.

"Are you packed, yet?"

"Pretty much. Turns out there's not a lot to take. I figure I'll leave my best pair of long johns for Hawk—maybe some of the newer socks—definitely the dirty magazines. I'd take the still though, if I thought it could fit in the chopper."

Margret laughed. "For a minute there, I thought you were getting practical on me."

Tapper snorted. "Yeah, well, I won't have much use for them where I'm going, and I never want to where kaki socks again."

Margret smiled, dimples winking up at him in the dark. He'd wanted to get drunk to night. Failing that, he would have liked to make the most of his last night in the company of a sympathetic nurse. Instead he found himself alone in the moonlight with Margret, and he'd be hard pressed to say which of the three would have been preferable.

"Could you do me a favor? Could you give something to Hawkeye for me?"

"All right. What is it?" Tapper grinned—that trade mark, bone-melting, troubling-brewing, poor-decision-inspiring grin. She eyed him suspiciously.

"Now remember, you've already agreed to this."

"I didn't see any contract—"

His lips descended on hers with a boldness that sent shivers down her spine. She could have protested; she could have pulled rank and thrown a hissy fit, but he was going home tomorrow—she might never see him again—and he was tall and blond and a damn good kisser. She relaxed and enjoyed the moment, letting his hands slide down to the small of her back and his tongue wander lazily into her mouth.

He took his time—savoring what he knew to be a once in a life time experience. He would never get to be this free again; never get to kiss another woman without the nagging feeling of his wife waiting for him. She was waiting now, but he was still an ocean away. The day after tomorrow, all that would change. He was going to have to be a better man.

But not tonight. Tonight he could be a bounder and a cad; tonight in the darkness with Margret he could be a scoundrel and kiss her just the way he'd always wanted to.

Eventually he released her mouth, landing small kisses on her nose and forehead before stepping back, still holding her shoulders.

Trapper grinned at her slightly dazed look. "Somehow I think it'd be better coming from you."

Margret sighed. "Oh I don't know. I think if he didn't run away in the first five seconds you'd manage change his mind."

Trapper laughed. "So you'll give him that for me?"

"I'll certainly try. That's a lot to remember."

"Need a reminder?"

Margret snorted at his outrageous suggestion and then shrugged her shoulders. "What the hell," she muttered, and moved closer into the circle of his arms.

Tapper was gone. The new bunkmate, BJ, was over in the mess learning the dangers of army food the hard way; Frank was on duty in post-op, committing malpractice the best way he knew how, and Trapper John Macintyre was gone.

Hawkeye starred at the former bed of his comrade in arms. It wasn't even cold yet. He had slept there last night while Hawkeye was in the pleasurable arms of a very amiable nurse in Tokyo. What a world. What a war.

Not yet cold and already covered by another man's duffel. BJ didn't seem like such a bad sort. He'd probably be just fine once Korea roughed up his clean edges and stripped a little of that good boy patina away. That's when you could really tell about people—in the first months after they arrived, when their civilian boundaries had been stripped away but they still hadn't become desensitized and cynical in order to cope. That's when you saw the true person. In any event, he couldn't be worse than Frank.

He just couldn't be as good as Trapper.

Hawkeye picked up a pair of long-johns from his bed. Trapper's best. No note—no "see ya"—no address—just long-johns, socks, and a few dirty magazines. Was that what their time together added up to? Well, that crap and the still—thank God for small mercies, the bastard left that behind. Hawkeye poured himself a drink and downed it, trying not to think about the last martini he'd had with Trap—trying not to think about how he couldn't remember it. He'd been packing to go on leave and rushing around looking for his bathrobe—maybe Trap had handed him a belt then—maybe before that—breakfast? He couldn't remember their last drink, and it bothered him. Would he forget the rest someday? The gorilla suits, and the Frank torturing, and the Hot-Lips teasing—would it all just disappear the way Trap had?

He knocked the pile of stuff onto the floor and kicked it under his bed. He would deal with it the next time they moved out—maybe.

He slumped onto the bed—staring at the kaki canvas until he couldn't stand the sight a second longer. He hid his eyes in the crook of his arm and tried to slip into the comforting territory of unconsciousness. Usually it never failed—the world went to hell, or fourteen hours went by without a break in the OR, and he'd escape for a moment or two into utter dreamlessness, but tonight, no such luck. Tonight his brain was not going to turn off.

Margret's stealthy entrance was his only saving grace from his own mind. Figuring the interloper to be Frank—who deserved to be ignored—or BJ—who hadn't yet merited either distinct of notice or active indifference—Hawkeye kept his eyes closed and hoped the intruder would take the hint.

"You're not asleep, Pierce. Don't even try it."

"That's funny—you're starting to sound a lot like Margret, Frank."

Margret snorted and moved to sit on the cot, shoving his legs off in order to make room. "Scoot."

"Don't mind me—it's just my bed and my legs, but no matter, it's all army property—we all belong to good ol'Uncle Sam," grumbled Hawkeye as he sat up, clutching his pillow to himself.

"Yes, we do. For now. But Trapper doesn't—not anymore."

Hawkeye was silent, his features immobile. Margret sighed and looked straight ahead, focusing on the helmet turned shaving bowl instead of the man turned stone beside her.

"He didn't want to go, Hawk."

"What?" Hawkeye sounded angry—a marginal improvement from his former apathy.

"He didn't want to go. Last night I found him drinking over his discharge papers like they were orders for a firing squad at dawn. He said it was a shithole, but he'd miss it. He'd miss the people. He'd miss you."

Hawkeye was silent and sullen, but he was listening, which was better than nothing.

"He was pissed that you wouldn't pick up the phone."

"I was in Tokyo—if I'd have known there was even the slightest chance of this happening, I'd have been sitting at the lobby desk."

"I know. That's what I told him. He knew, he just could imagine leaving without seeing you."

Hawkeye was silent a moment before he sighed. "I'm still expecting him to walk through that door—even while I'm sitting here staring at another man's duffle, I'm still waiting for that ridiculous yellow robe to sashay through that doorway."

"Me too. The camp already feels empty without him, and Henry—"

"Don't—please don't."

Margret nodded, choking back tears. They sat in silence for a time, listening to the faint booms from farther up the line. They weren't the closest MASH unit—they would only get the over flow later on as the closer units filled up and the less urgent cases were shifted down to them. It would be a long night, but certainly not the longest since they'd been here and certainly not the longest they would see before they left.

"He asked me to give you something."

Hawkeye turned to stare at her. "Trap?"

"Yes. He said it would be better coming from me. This probably isn't the best time or place—"

"Margret, this whole war isn't the best time or place."

"All right. Close your eyes."

"Margret?"

"Oh please, you've trusted me in more dangerous situations than this."

"That was just my life—how do I know you aren't making designs on my virtue?"

"Pierce—"

"They're closed, they're closed."

She inspected his eyes and took a deep breath before leaning in. She hesitated for one heartbeat before pressing her lips to his.

Hawkeyes eyes shot open, and they're gazes locked for one moment. Then he pounced and rolled her onto the bed underneath him, running his fingers through her hair, across her shoulders, and down her back, mashing his lips to hers.

Margret was unprepared for the onslaught. She held onto his shoulders and matched his mouth in force, unable to do much else under the circumstances. Whereas Trapper's kiss had been a thing of beauty—a composition of pure skill delivered by a master—Hawkeye's was comprised of passion and pain—almost all the more moving for its lack of polish. In one embrace she could feel the depths of his loss and the span of his heart. He had lost someone—someone he knew as his own soul—and so he was clutching on to her, infusing something of that soul into her, holding on to what shreds of human connection he had left. That one messy kiss was the most intimate moment of her life.

He broke the kiss with a jerk and threw himself to the head of the bed, as far away from her as possible. Margret sat up—confused and dismayed until she saw his face and heard him fight back a sob.

Margret carefully inched her way back up the bed, laying her hand lightly on his shoulder. "Oh, Hawkeye."

He didn't look at her, but his whole frame slumped into her arms. She held on to him, supporting his weight as best she could and pressing her lips to his forehead with a small sigh.

"Margret—"

"I'm not going anywhere, Hawk. Just close your eyes."

So a little out of cannon, but palatable. Frankly, I forgot that Hawkeye got Trap's goodbye kiss from Radar, but now that I remember, I see no reason why he couldn't have gotten two. However, it is true that I did not write this with that in mind.

Yet again I find myself dabbling in a genre totally foreign from my past works. I like this story; I've had better, and I've had worse, but I love these characters and with such good material, it's hard to go wrong. I hope you likewise enjoyed it. Let me know what you think!