Author's note: This is a very lengthy single-chapter fic, but I couldn't find any suitable breaks. The main body of the fic is set six months after the events of 'Going Home Again'. Hawkeye and Trapper have been living together in Hawkeye's apartment since their arrival back in Maine following their dismissal from both the US Army and the medical profession on account of their being exposed as homosexuals. Trapper is in the process of divorcing Louise. Italics denote flashbacks to events over the past six months.
The title is taken from a New England term used to describe two women living together independently without men, and from the David Mamet play of the same name.
Contains some sexual references but no graphic content.
Boston – May 1952
Trapper sat silently on the luxurious white couch in the living room of the apartment he had begun, with some difficulty, to call home. Silence, it seemed, was his most common company these days. Hawkeye worked long hours, hauling gurneys at Boston Memorial – the very hospital where Trapper had once been considered one of the best surgeons in his field. Double shifts were often on the cards, and Trapper would sit up into the night and wait for him. There was little for him to do, save for the cleaning, or preparing dinner, or if he didn't feel up to these, vegetating in front of the TV.
This evening, he had applied his energies to the second of these options, chopped vegetables and slicing meat, painfully aware that these same hands had cut deftly into human flesh in order to save lives, up until a few months ago. Cooking was one hell of a demotion! He felt, at times, like he was playing the role of a doting housewife, and never in his life had he felt so woefully miscast.
It was a lonely existence. His friends had vanished after he and Louise had separated, just as he had predicted. His parents had expressed a wish via their daughter-in-law that Trapper was not to contact them until he had seen the error of his ways and surrendered himself for moral or medical reparation, either at the hands of a priest or a psychiatrist. Anger still welled up inside him at the thought: he couldn't subject himself to that sort of misery, and he couldn't even contemplate a life without Hawkeye. And so, instead, he resigned himself to his solitary life as a Boston house husband, living through each day with little more to look forward to than Hawkeye's return from work.
His daughters had yet to visit. In the six months since he and Hawkeye had moved back, Trapper had seen his girls a sum total of five times, sitting awkwardly in the front room of his former home while Louise hovered over him like he was some dangerous, carnivorous beast, liable to devour their young. Hawkeye had waited in the car outside. The first visit had been a disaster: he'd come over for an hour on Christmas Day to drop off their gifts and spend a few precious moments with his children. Kathy had cried the whole time and begged him to come home; Becky had refused to speak to him. Things had since improved, but he had yet to get through an entire visit without one or the other of them asking questions he couldn't answer, or blurting out some emotional plea that broke his heart. He would stumble around the delicate situation, and Louise would change the subject, or hasten to bundle him out the door even faster.
He had, at least, now persuaded her to allow him to take them out somewhere. Hawkeye, delighted by the news, had gathered up several brochures and begun searching for recommendations, waxing ecstatic about how much fun it would be. At that point, Trapper had then been forced to break the news that Louise had strictly forbidden him from meeting 'her' children. Hawkeye gamely pretended not to be as hurt as he really was – and he pretended very well, too, as it had taken Trapper the rest of the day to figure out why Hawkeye wasn't talking. Eventually, Trapper managed to perk him up with a few kind words and a few soft kisses, and Hawkeye managed to give him both a smile, and the brochures he'd been collecting. By now, Trapper had leafed through them and picked out a couple of museums the girls might enjoy on a day out.
That day out had yet to occur.
And so, this was Trapper's life: Ex-doctor, unemployed homemaker, absent father. The longest conversation he'd had all week had been with Louise's divorce lawyer as he tried desperately to nail down an agreed level of contact with his girls. An agreement had yet to be reached, and the proceedings dragged on. The neighbours never visited, but then neither had they rallied to call for the immediate eviction of the two slightly secretive ex-army doctors in the second penthouse on floor 44. Trapper figured they should probably be grateful for that.
He should be, but he wasn't.
Hawkeye's apartment – or their apartment, as he had urged Trapper to refer to it from the moment they moved in together – was everything Trapper despised about modern interior design: Lurid orange carpets, ugly stonework walls, and an almost obscene bachelor pad bedroom with suggestively placed mirrors. It was a far cry from the modest town house he had bought with Louise, with its floral drapes and pastel interiors. However, it was more than apparent that Hawkeye, for some reason, adored it.
Six months earlier…
"Isn't it beautiful?" Hawkeye crowed as he led Trapper through the luxurious apartment. "God, I've missed this place!"
'This place', Hawkeye had explained, had been his first major blowout after he'd been given a solid job offer at the end of his residency; his rite of passage into professional adulthood; the epitome of sophisticated manhood.
Trapper couldn't imagine why as he glanced around the place. When Hawkeye had told him he owned an apartment in the city, this wasn't what he'd imagined. Overpriced, overstated and disgustingly over the top, it was the very antithesis of Hawkeye's country roots, although, perhaps, more befitting of the cocksure, loud-mouthed Casanova persona he was keen to exhibit when Trapper had first met him in Korea.. Knowing Hawkeye as well as he did now, he couldn't imagine him living here! "Well, Hawk… it… it sure is somethin'! I don't know what, but it's somethin'." He lifted a hand to a yellow curtain that seemed to have been strategically selected to clash with everything in the room.
"I know – it is a little extravagant. I guess this is what happens when your girlfriend leaves you and your rebound fling is with a realtor! But look at the location! We could roll downstairs in the evening and hit a cocktail bar within two minutes. I could jump on the subway and be at work in ten… back when I bought the place, and I had a job, that is."
"Are you tryin'a sell me the place or… just takin' a trip down memory lane?"
"Oh, don't be like that!"
"Isn't it a little…?" Trapper trailed off. It wasn't a little; it was a lot.
"Well, of course it is! This was supposed to be my bachelor pad – my den of debauchery where I would live out the prime of my youth."
Trapper gave him a look. "Bachelor pad?"
"Oh, don't be jealous! Come on – I'll show you the bedroom." A suggestive wiggle of his eyebrows had Trapper following on after him like a horny puppy.
The bedroom was like everything else in the place – opulent, modern, and gaudily tasteless, but Hawkeye clearly adored it. The bed was set into a sprawling wooden frame with built in nightstands and storage, and flanked by the large mirrors set into the sliding doors of the matching fitted wardrobes, and just beyond the headboard was a wall of sheer glass with a door leading to the balcony outside. Through this large window, were the lights of literally hundreds of windows, like the tiny eyes of the city, peering in.
"Welcome to my parlour," he purred, drawing Trapper through the door and flicking the lights on in his own personal love nest.
Trapper stared at the suggestively placed mirrors and the gleaming crystal mood lighting. "This is your bedroom?"
"Our bedroom," Hawkeye corrected. He ran his hand up and down Trapper's arm. He rested his head on his lover's shoulder and smiled. "Our own private little hideaway – a luxurious den of decadence where we can make up for lost time. It's got a record player, en-suite bathroom, and there's a hot tub on the balcony." He shot Trapper an almost predatory grin. "Don't you just love it?"
He didn't know what to say. Trapper had spent the past decade happily ensconced in a modest terrace that was best described as cosy and understated, its décor mostly picked out by his wife. Maybe it wasn't all his taste, but he'd had no objections. By comparison, this was overstated at best; at worst, it was vulgar.
Not wanting to seem rude, he smiled at Hawkeye. "It's fantastic," he lied.
It was an eyesore, Trapper had concluded. There wasn't a single room that didn't irritate him with either its repulsive colour scheme or its silly, overly-complex 'mod cons'. And that wasn't all. The leak in the second bathroom had started up within a month of their moving in – the product of a burst pipe in the chill of the winter. The one in the hallway, however, had Trapper worried. The yellow stain blossoming on the whitewashed ceiling was nowhere near any of the pipes, and he was beginning to suspect that the roof was the guilty culprit.
This luxurious penthouse, it was turning out, was not everything it was cracked up to be.
On top of the leaks, many of the ridiculous gadgets and faddy little accessories Hawkeye had installed had now broken down, succumbed to damage, or proven to be useless. As their home seemed to decay around them, Trapper had tried to busy himself over recent months by trying, albeit badly, to repair some of them. It was no trouble, he's told Hawkeye – he needed a hobby, and mechanics was a passing interest of his – but his skills as a surgeon (or former surgeon, as he was now) far outstripped his aspirations as an electrician, and many of the broken gadgets were now in pieces in the kitchen cabinets. He gave up, and found himself once again, with little to do.
It was a bore. Unemployment, it turned out, did not suit him. He slept a lot, but still felt exhausted. He drank too much. His smoking habit kicked up a gear, simply for the want of something to do with his hands, and rather than indulging the occasional cigarillo at parties, he now counted down the hours to his evening smoke just to try and calm his irritation. He tried his best to tackle the cooking and cleaning, but his meals were rarely up to scratch, and the surfaces never shone like they had at home.
And now, in his efforts to keep busy and serve some purpose in his new domestic life, he had stumbled across what was about to be his first challenge:
The bills he had found stuffed down the back of the bookcase must have been hidden there for some time. They spanned a good few months, and several different companies. Water, electric, even the mortgage. His worst fears had all come true: This apartment – this hideous, ultra-modern, up-to-the-minute eyesore that Hawkeye had been pouring money into since he completed his residency – couldn't be cheap, and Trapper had wondered for a while how he had been paying for things. And there was his answer, stated plainly in red, white and black: he hadn't.
Passing the bundle of paperwork from one hand to another, Trapper went over and over in his head. How the hell was he going to bring this up? This wasn't like his marriage to Louise – there, his name was on all the bills. He was the breadwinner, and Louise was his wife – she had every right to express concerns and make sure bills were being paid and budgets were being respected – but what was Trapper to Hawkeye? What right did he have to lecture his live-in-lover over his finances?
The more he waited, the more he felt like he had no grounds at all. The sun set over the Boston skyline. The night darkened, and Trapper's thoughts darkened with them. How could he do this? The apartment wasn't his, the money wasn't his, the bills weren't in his name… he may as well be the guy who crashed on the couch and ate the contents of the refrigerator. The only difference was he crashed in the master bedroom and was sleeping with its other occupant.
December, 1951
It felt… special.
Trapper couldn't help but think it was a really sappy way of viewing something as domestic as sleeping, but it just gave him a nice warm feeling inside. Until now, the only beds they'd shared were cramped army cots and the occasional hotel futon. This was their bed. Large and comfortable, built for two, and the focal point of their romantic life. Trapper couldn't give a damn about the fancy fittings or the corny music, and the vibrate function just made him feel queasy. What mattered was that for the first time, they could sleep together without worrying about having to keep an ear out for tent-mates or chambermaids.
They made love twice on that first day – once on the bed shortly after their arrival, and once more on the sheepskin rug next to the closet after they'd fetched Trapper's belongings from his former marital home. It had been a tiring, emotional day. Where they had gotten the energy from for hanky-panky was a mystery, but weeks of celibacy and the dramatic events of the day had left them very much in need of both comfort and intimacy. By the time Trapper had poured Hawkeye into bed, they were both exhausted. And yet, each of them stayed awake for another hour or so. Occasionally, eyes would flicker open, and one of them would catch the other gazing across with a dopey smile on his face.
"This is nice, isn't it? Isn't this nice?"
Hawkeye seemed to read his mind, and Trapper reached out and took his hand in his own, shuffling closer. "Missed this." His words were mumbled into Hawkeye's hair as he proceeded to adhere himself to Trapper's body like some kind of creeping plant life. "I ain't gonna lie, those last couple'a weeks in your dad's house were sheer hell."
Hawkeye laughed, his body shaking, and his skull bashed Trapper in the mouth. Trapper leaned back, trying to avoid getting a fat lip. "Yeah?" Hawkeye gave him a squeeze. "I'll make it up to you, I promise. In fact…" He squirmed around a little in Trapper's arms. "How tired are you?"
Chuckling, Trapper kissed him on the forehead. "Go to sleep, Hawk."
It wasn't the best night's sleep in the world. The satin sheets became sweaty and uncomfortable all too soon, and Hawkeye was something of a fidget in his sleep. Trapper used the former to deal with the latter, sliding Hawkeye back onto his side of the bed. Then he grabbed the chenille bedspread off the floor and spent the night wrapped up in that on top of the comforter. Eventually, he drifted off, smiling as he listened to Hawkeye breathing and murmuring in his sleep a few inches away.
He awoke, well rested, several hours later, when the rattle of pots and pans in the kitchen stirred him from his slumber. It took him a moment to get his bearings, but the sheepskin rug and the mirrored walls brought it all back soon enough. It felt strange waking up in this place, knowing that it was his home. He couldn't quite pin such a label on something so unhomely. Nonetheless, it was his. Or rather it was Hawkeye's. And it was his because it was Hawkeye's. Because Hawkeye was his… and he was Hawkeye's. It all seemed so… domestic.
"Hello, hello, hello!" As if to hammer the point home, Hawkeye emerged through the doorway carrying a tray brimming with an extravagant cooked breakfast, and Trapper couldn't help but smile.
"Well!" Trapper beamed as he sat up, taking in the sight of Hawkeye with bed hair and a breakfast tray. "Ain't you somethin'?"
"I'm a lot of things, but none of those are polite words to use at the breakfast table." Placing the tray on Trapper's lap, Hawkeye ran through the contents, in case Trapper had trouble identifying anything. "I made you bacon, French toast, sausages, pancakes – they're a little overdone – and that's scrambled egg but it's got onion and mushrooms in it because it was supposed to be an omelette. Sorry – I make love better than I cook. But I'm cute."
"You're beautiful!" Trapper wasn't exaggerating. Hawkeye was scruffy and dishevelled, with a five o'clock (and then some) shadow. He'd borrowed Trapper's black silk robe, and it suited him well, showing off his legs – his ratty old army-issue one just didn't do him justice – and he had rug burns on his knees from last night. Trapper suppressed a smirk and copped a feel of one naked thigh. "You're wearin' my robe."
"Your stuff was on top of mine. Besides, I tossed out my army one."
"Keep it. It looks good on ya." Trapper's gaze travelled up and down Hawkeye's body, and he gave him an approving look. "Ya got nice legs."
"You can buy me a set of nylons for Christmas." There was a corny smile on Hawkeye's face, and a glint in his eye.
Trapper chuckled, and Hawkeye crawled into the bed beside him. "This is great, Hawk. Thanks." He kissed him between mouthfuls.
"Don't mention it." Another kiss. "I'm just making sure you've got the energy to christen the other five rooms with me."
Laughing and shaking his head, Trapper scooped up a forkful of failed omelette. "Christ, Hawk! Don't you think of anything else?"
"I thought of breakfast, didn't I? But now I'm done cooking, so I'm back on sex." He sidled closer, resting his head on Trapper's shoulder. "Of course I do." He answered Trapper's question with a sudden sincerity, all joking aside, his fingers playing gently with Trapper's curls. "I think about how wonderful it is to be here with you; how lucky I am to have you; how grateful I am that after everything that's happened, we're here – together. I love this. I love waking up beside you and I love falling asleep next to you – and I love all the stuff in between." He paused, running a hand up and down Trapper's arm, as if marvelling at the reality of him. "I love you."
Trapper paused, swallowed, and leaned in to kiss him. "Love you, too."
Hawkeye beamed, but he didn't keep still for long: Leaping to his feet, he scrambled from the bed and grabbed a towel from the box of linens. "Eat up! I'll be in the shower, naked and soapy. Don't let me get lonely in there!"
He shot Trapper a playful wink, and, for a good measure, dropped his robe to the floor on his way out of the room. Trapper stared after him, then, still chewing on a piece of bacon, he pushed the tray aside and ran down the hall after him.
It was almost midnight by the time Hawkeye staggered in through the front door. He dumped his coat and keys in the luxurious swivel chair that seemed to have been condemned to spend the rest of its life as a coat rack, and stalked across to the sofa with a weary look on his face. Wordlessly, he flopped down with his eyes closed and his head back.
"How was work?" Trapper asked. His voice was tight and tense. Somehow, Hawkeye's exhaustion actually angered him. He hated seeing him like this, so drained from his working day that he could scarcely move. It made Trapper feel all the more useless.
"Nineteen hours!" Hawkeye opened his eyes to stare at the ceiling. "I actually found myself missing Korea. I mean at least surgery was interesting, you know? This is just… up and down a corridor all day. Fetch this, carry that, move this patient, find that patient. 'Oh, I'm sorry, Doctor, is this the wrong patient? I'm so terribly sorry, but I read the theatre roster instead of your mind, and my powers of telepathy just aren't up to scratch! I'll just take him back and bring back somebody else. Ladies and gentlemen, please place your bets on whether I get the right one!' Do you think we acted like bad-tempered assholes when we were doctors?" He massaged his forearms and winced. "Do you think I can get a double arm transplant on my insurance?"
Trapper didn't laugh. He leafed through the bills again. "Listen, Hawk…"
"Did you make dinner?" Hawkeye's head snapped up, his eyes tired, but hopeful at the thought of a decent meal.
A pause. Trapper studied the hopeful, almost pleading look on Hawkeye's face and nodded in the direction of the kitchen. "There's a stew on the stove."
He was off like a whippet, dragging his tired body in the direction of the kitchen, spurred on by hunger. Trapper glared at him as he disappeared. Hawkeye was stalling. Trapper was convinced of it. While Hawkeye rattled about with the crockery and the stew pot, Trapper stalked over to the sideboard and took out the packet of cigarillos Hawkeye had bought him last week. He chopped the end off of one and lit it, irritated that he had been reduced to having his smokes bought for him, like some kind of kept rent boy. He stood quietly for a few minutes, puffing on his cigar and waiting for Hawkeye to finish serving his dinner, but all the while his frustration grew. He gnawed at his lower lip, glaring intensely at the orange carpet. This was stupid! They were supposed to be in a relationship! Why the hell couldn't he just go in and talk about the money issue and get it dealt with?
Steeling himself, Trapper snatched up the bills from the coffee table and followed Hawkeye through to the kitchen.
His partner was sitting at the kitchen table, forlornly chewing on the last piece of stale bread as he dipped it into Trapper's rather weak attempt at stew. "We need more bread," Hawkeye announced without looking up.
"Hawkeye…" Trapper took a deep breath.
"Don't worry about it. I'll pick some more up on my way to work tomorrow. I'll need it for lunch or I'm stuck using the canteen. Have you seen how much they charge for a goddamn sandwich?" He waved his spoon almost accusingly at Trapper, like it was his fault or something. "Why did you never warn me about that? I wouldn't mind, but their bread is like cardboard, their salads are the same colour as the gravy, and I think they're sourcing both their meatloaf and their waitresses from the morgue!"
"Hawkeye, we have uh… a situation here."
Hawkeye froze. Trapper cringed as soon as it came out of his mouth. He dreaded for a moment that Hawkeye might assume he was about to walk out on him – but then at least that might get his attention.
"It's nothin' terrible!" 'Ain't it? I'd say skipping out on bills for six months is pretty serious.' "I just… think we need to have a talk. An' we ain't had much chance to do that lately, right?"
Hawkeye folded his arms, sat back and stared across the room. "Tell me about it!" He waved a hand dismissively. "It feels like weeks since I spoke to anyone who wasn't a doctor or a janitor! I've been stuck in that place so much I could have worked my way back up to surgeon all over again! Don't sweat it though – I'm sure I'll have earned a day off by nineteen sixty five. We'll talk then. I'll call you from the hospital lobby, after they've admitted me for exhaustion." There was a nervous edge to his humour. His jovial tone sounded phoney, his jokes forced.
Trapper sighed. Hawkeye's deliberate stalling and derailing was doing nothing for his foul mood. 'Screw this,' he thought. If Hawkeye wanted to wisecrack his way through the conversation, he may as well cut to the chase. Tossing the papers down on the kitchen table, he took a drag from his cigar and folded his arms. "What the hell are these?" He hadn't meant to sound aggressive, but… at least it was out in the open now.
Now, and only now, did Hawkeye pause in his idle chatter. He flipped through the pages casually, barely glancing at them. Then he gave Trapper a weak, nervous grin. "Well, they're bills, Trapper. Kind of an arrangement I have with the bank and utility companies. They send me their little love letters and, in exchange, I send them money, and they let me keep the lights on. I'll admit, all the fire's gone out of the relationship but I'm too sentimental to break it off." He hastily bundled the papers up and stuffed them under his elbow as he hunched over his stew.
Nodding, Trapper watched his furtive stashing of the unpaid bills with narrowed eyes. He should have expected the wise-cracks. "Right. An' when exactly were you plannin' on paying 'em? Or are you ignorin' these love letters 'til American Power PLC buys you a diamond ring?"
"Look," Hawkeye's expression was suddenly serious. "I got this. Just… can you leave me alone? I don't need this right now!" And then his head was down again, poking at his food, avoiding Trapper's gaze.
"If not now, when?"
"I'm tired…"
"You're always tired! You're workin' an eighty hour week, an' for what? We ain't even makin' ends meet here!"
"We can fix this! If you got a job…"
"Oh, don't do that, Hawk! Don't put this on my shoulders! You know damned well I've gone 'round every hospital, every office, every store…"
"You'll find something!"
"Nothin' that covers this! We're up to our goddamned eyeballs here! An' you ain't even told me! You've been hidin' this, an' you had no right!" He puffed angrily on his smoke, trying to stay calm.
Hunched over his stew, Hawkeye glanced up at Trapper. "That doesn't help."
"What doesn't?"
"You and that… disgusting habit of yours! Do you have any idea how much those things cost? My wallet has a hernia every time I walk into that tobacco store! And you're stinking up my upholstery!"
Apoplectic, Trapper flung his cigar across the room. "Oh, screw your upholstery! I have five smokes a week – that's all! Look at your damned mortgage payments if you wanna know where your money goes!" He wrenched a bill from under Hawkeye's elbow and slammed it on the table, only for Hawkeye to push it aside as he shoved his stew away.
"My mortgage is none of your damned business! It's my problem – I'm dealing with it! Do I tell you how to deal with your divorce?"
Trapper recoiled and turned away, biting his lip. Hawkeye stood. "Where are you goin'?"
"I'm not hungry." Hawkeye walked away from the table, heading for the bedroom.
Trapper jumped up. "Hey, I'm talkin' to you!"
"You're not talking! You're yelling! And I'm not gonna stay here and listen to this!"
"Where are you goin'?!"
"To sleep! I have to be back in work in six hours!"
The door slammed. The framed prints of pretentious modern art on the walls shook. Trapper retrieved his cigar from where it had burned a hole in the carpet.
February, 1952
"I have a job…"
Trapper was on his hands and knees in front of the fire, hovering over the 'situations vacant' pages of the Globe. He glanced up as Hawkeye pushed the door closed behind him. His face lit up. "You're kiddin'? That's great!"
Hawkeye hung his coat carefully on the back of the swivel chair, loosening his tie a little. He seemed… almost apologetic, like this was a competition and he didn't want to rub Trapper's nose in the fact that he'd 'won'. Well, Trapper wouldn't have him feeling bad. He scrambled to his feet and swept Hawkeye up in his arms for a congratulatory hug and a kiss.
"This is fantastic, Hawk! What is it? Hospital work?"
"Orderly, surgical ward."
"Hawk, that's perfect!" Trapper knew Hawkeye had been desperate to find something vaguely related to medicine. No hospital or clinic would take him on as a doctor, though, and, after two months of fruitless searching, he'd taken to applying for menial jobs, leaving his medical degree off his resume, and citing only his father as a previous employer. According to his references, the newly-demoted Mr. Benjamin Franklin Pierce had worked for nine years in the family practice as little more than a dogs-body. It was a humiliating step down. It was probably illegal. It had gotten him a job…
But Trapper was determined to lift his spirits. "Where is it?" He gave Hawkeye a squeeze. Crummy job or not, this was an enormous step. They had two beers in the refrigerator that they were saving for just such an occasion.
Hawkeye hesitated, tensing in Trapper's arms. "Boston Memorial…"
He had good reason to pause. Trapper's face fell a little. "Well, ain't that a kick in the crotch?"
"Aw, Trap, come on!" Hawkeye's fingers curled into the yellow terry cloth of Trapper's robe. "I'll be spending my days pushing gurneys and emptying bedpans – it's nothing to be jealous of, believe me!"
"Hmm." Trapper gave a humourless chuckle. "Maybe you could give me updates on how the place is doin' without me."
Hawkeye's lips curved into a lascivious smile as they pressed themselves against Trapper's neck. "Ask me nicely and I'll give you anything you want…"
Trapper gave in and allowed himself to be kissed. "Oh yeah? Anythin' in particular you wanna give me?"
"I've got a few ideas…" His fingers interlaced with Trapper's, and he pulled him towards the bedroom. "Come on – you can look for work any time. Let's celebrate my newly-achieved underemployment with gratuitous mid-morning sex!"
By the time they stumbled through to the bedroom, Trapper had forgotten why he'd felt so bitter in the first place.
Trapper pushed open the bedroom door. The resulting light from the hallway cast a stark stripe across the bed, and the Hawkeye-shaped lump that was curled up in it. Hawkeye didn't move when Trapper approached, nor did he say a word as he perched himself on the edge of the bed beside him. Trapper sighed.
"I can tell you're awake, Hawk. You breathe different when you're sleepin'."
Hawkeye rolled over and stared at the ceiling. "How do I breathe when I'm sleeping?"
"Uh… slower. You make these sorta… breathy little sighs. It's cute." Trapper crept closer, hoping the lighter tone of the conversation was an indication of progress.
Hawkeye nodded. "Right. I'll bear that in mind next time I'm trying to ignore you." With those words, he resumed his task of ignoring Trapper, turning over and pulling the blankets around himself cocooning himself.
"Oh, knock it off!" Trapper gave him a gentle prod. Hawkeye flinched and scooted over to the far side of the bed.
There was a period of silence as a stalemate was reached. At last, Hawkeye rolled over again. "I love this place." This, he addressed to the chandelier rather than Trapper.
"I know you do." Trapper prodded the sheepskin rug with his toe.
"This was my rite of passage! My payback for all those years spent in grimy one-room apartments with shared bathrooms, or stinking dorm rooms with a dozen other guys who steal your food and throw up outside your door. I worked so hard for this! You know me – I don't want drive a big car or wear designer suits – but this was my one blow-out! Like a big adult playground! I like it here…"
Trapper nodded. He couldn't really relate – he'd got married in med school and had two kids by the time he finished his residency. His only blow-out had been the cost of stocking his liquor cabinet to cope with the combined pressures of work, study, and parenting. "I'm guessin' you got a lotta good memories here?"
Hawkeye laughed – a bitter chuckle compared to his usual cackle. "Good memories? Are you kidding me? My stuff was still in boxes when I got drafted!" He sat up a little and propped himself up on his elbows. "I bought this place when I got my job offer at Boston General. Then, right after that, I got my draft notice. The first thing I did then was head back to Crabapple Cove to see my dad! Two months later, I'm in Korea. I never got the chance to make any memories here!"
Trapper was puzzled. "But… all the gadgets an' gizmos! You've done a lotta work on this place!"
With a guilty shrug, Hawkeye ducked his head. "When they shipped me out, I had this habit: every time I got my army paycheck, I'd send off and order a little something for the apartment out of a catalogue. I figured I was missing out on the whole lifestyle, so I tried to live vicariously through mail order. The funny thing is, I didn't even miss Boston – I missed the Cove! I missed pine trees and fishing and Barney's diner and my dad's rickety old house! I bought all of this stuff for a place I wasn't even living in, in a city I don't even care for! Stupid, right?"
"You do know most of it's junk?"
Scowling at the now-broken stereo that sat in pieces on the dresser, Hawkeye was inclined to agree. "I noticed."
"So why're ya so sentimental over it? I mean sure, it's big, it's fancy, it's expensive…"
"Because it's mine! And it's all I've got, goddamn it!" A despairing sob escaped him, and he curled in on himself, hugging his knees to his chest. Trapper gently ran a hand over his back, unsure how to handle this. At last, Hawkeye lifted his head, sniffed, and wiped his face on the sleeve of the robe he had adopted from Trapper. "Three years of pre-med! Five in medical school! Four years in a residency that almost killed me! I've worked lousy jobs, I've run up debts, I screwed up my last relationship, and all for what?! What have I got to show for it? Where's my shining career in medicine? Where's my professional respect? Where are my happy, healthy patients, smiling at me and shaking my hand, thanking me for improving their lives? Where's everything I worked for and sacrificed for and sweated for? There's nothing – except this! The army took a year out of my life! They took my job – they may as well have taken my medical licence and my diploma for all they're good for now! Well, they can't have this as well! They won't!"
Trapper sighed. He didn't know how to talk Hawkeye down from this kind of rage – normally his anger was productive, and Trapper wasn't interested in stopping him when he was on a roll like that! He would charge in right alongside! This was different – there was nothing to be gained here. There was just Hawkeye's stubborn sense of pride. Trapper wasn't used to being the sensible one. Louise was the one who used to scold him when he ran up too many bar tabs. Now, with the tables turned, he had to try and figure out how it worked from the rational side. Gently, he took Hawkeye's hands. "Hawkeye – if you don't sort this out soon, the mortgage company'll take it. You want that on your record, too?"
Hawkeye shook his head sadly, but he looked like a child sulking over having his toys taken away, rather than a sensible grown adult who was beginning to see the big picture.
"Come on. What do you say? We can find somewhere smaller…"
Hawkeye glanced up at him, pouting a little. "Give me a month," was his pleading response. "We'll work something out. Don't we always work everything out?" His hand reached out to Trapper, long fingers gently stroking his cheek, his thumb playing over his lips.
Catching the hand nimbly, Trapper sighed. "This ain't exactly somethin' you can kiss better, Hawk, 'less you're about to make a very intererstin' offer to your mortgage company."
The joke had the exact opposite to the desired effect. The hand was whipped out of his grasp, and Hawkeye shut down. He turned away again, wrapping himself in a sheet and cocooning himself safely in his satin shroud. There was no further discussion to be had. Trapper found himself perched on the side of the bed, alone, to all extents and purposes. Across the wide expanse of satin-covered mattress, Hawkeye began to snore gently. And Trapper knew the sound well enough to tell that he wasn't faking.
Trapper sat awkwardly on the end of the bed, his head in his hands; Hawkeye curled up diagonally opposite, about as far away as he could get, his back pressed up against the headboard and a blanket clutched around his naked body. He forced a smile. "Well, this is awkward."
"Tell me about it."
Hawkeye tried, with some considerable difficulty, not to notice how much Trapper was trembling. He failed. And so, for the fifth time, he apologised. "I'm s–"
"Would you stop sayin' you're sorry already?!"
Hawkeye fell silent and pulled his blanket a little tighter around himself.
Trapper let out a shaky breath and prodded the sheepskin rug with his toe. "It ain't your fault, Hawk. You ain't done nothin' wrong."
Nodding, Hawkeye slithered down the bed a little and wrapped himself around a pillow, hugging it to his chest. "I didn't hurt you, did I?"
Freezing for a moment, Trapper thought this over, and then shrugged. "Didn't hurt exactly. It just… ain't my thing is all." He turned and glanced over his shoulder at all Hawkeye, forcing a thin smile. "So don't take it so personal. Okay?"
But Hawkeye did take it personal. He always prided himself on being a skilled and sensitive lover, and a bedroom disaster was about the worst blow his ego could take. Pouting, he burrowed deeper into his nest of blankets. Then, the mattress dipped under Trapper's weight as he crawled closer, and Hawkeye found himself being spooned, Trapper's warm body pressing against his back, comforting and secure. But, even now, he kept going over and over it in his head. "I don't understand what I did wrong."
"You didn't do anythin' wrong!"
"You don't get it! I'm normally so good at this!"
Trapper tensed a little. "I didn't say it wasn't good, Hawk. Just that it didn't do it for me."
There was a pause, and Hawkeye turned in Trapper's arms. Nose to nose, he gave the man a quizzical look. "How can you not like it if it was good?"
"Hawk…"
"That makes no sense!"
Trapper silenced him with a kiss. "I know what I like, okay?" His words were tender, his voice gentle, and he continued to pepper Hawkeye's face and throat with kisses.
"Yeah, I get that, but–"
"An' I like what I like…" The kisses continued, and he gently manoeuvred Hawkeye onto his back. Hawkeye purred, his throat vibrating under Trapper's lips. "An' I think…" He carefully pinned Hawkeye's arms above his head, his hands clasped tight around his wrists. "… I know what you like, too." The pleading little moan Hawkeye made was music to his ears, and Trapper kissed him hard and smirked. "This ain't so bad, is it? If I do this enough, this makes up for it, doesn't it?" He pulled away to survey the quite delicious sight of Hawkeye pinned beneath him, breathless and aroused.
There was another moan – this time of frustration – and Hawkeye wriggled beneath him. "Don't stop! Did I say you could stop?"
Chuckling, Trapper returned to his task of kissing Hawkeye senseless. "You're insatiable, you know that? All that energy – always buzzin'. You'll wear me out one day, I swear!"
Trapper awoke feeling cold and groggy. Sunlight was streaming in through the windows above the bed, and a glance at the clock told him it was already nearly nine. He was sleeping later these days, what with having nothing to get up for, and the sight of the empty space in the bed beside him was nothing new. The sheets were rumpled from Hawkeye's nocturnal fidgeting, and Trapper found himself reaching out to run his hand over the satin.
It was only now that he noticed the sound of running water coming from the en-suite. That was strange – Hawkeye was usually long gone by now – and Trapper flung himself out of bed to investigate. Pulling his yellow robe on, he padded across the carpet and pushed the door open.
The shower curtain was pulled across, the water running, but there were no sounds of movement, nor was Hawkeye's raucous singing rattling the fixtures on the wall. Trapper dashed forward, clutching at the curtain and tugging it back violently.
"Hawk!"
Bile surged in Trapper's throat, and he dropped to his knees. Hawkeye was curled up in a corner of the bathtub, his eyes closed, his head resting on the tiles. When Trapper reached out for him, the water from the shower was icy cold against his skin, and he quickly wrenched the tap to switch it off.
Hawkeye wasn't much warmer. But he was breathing.
Trapper checked him over, and then, satisfied that he wasn't bleeding, shook him in an attempt to rouse him. "Hawk? C'mon, wake up." Hawkeye didn't stir, and Trapper snatched a towel from the rack and wrapped it around him, rubbing at his skin. Eventually, as he was dried off none-too-gently, Hawkeye began to come to.
His eyes opened, and gradually, he began to focus hazily on Trapper's face. "Trap?"
"Hey!" Trapper beamed, relieved to see those eyes gazing up at him. He continued to rub the warmth back into his fingers, praying he didn't have hypothermia.
"Trap? I'm cold."
"That'll be the water." Trapper frisked the towel over Hawkeye's hair, leaving it sticking up in jet black tufts. "Do me a favour – wiggle your toes for me?"
Hawkeye wiggled. "What happened?"
"You fell asleep in the shower."
His eyes widening and his senses returning, Hawkeye pushed himself away from the wall a little. "I fell asleep?"
"Yeah. You must'a been out for a while – used all the hot water." Still feeling anxious, Trapper tried for a joke. "Guess I gotta wait awhile for mine now."
Hawkeye didn't laugh. The more he woke up, the more frantic he got. Soon, he was trying to stagger to his feet, and Trapper had to catch him as his legs gave way.
"Whoa! Slow down there, one step at a time, huh?"
"What time is it?"
"Never mind that! You gotta take it easy!"
"I have to go to work!" Hawkeye was manic, his voice breaking, like he was about to cry. "There are patients! Gurneys to be pushed! Surgeons to be yelled at by! I have to go!"
"You ain't goin' anywhere. You fainted, for God's sake!" Trapper fought desperately to keep him under control. In any other circumstance, wresting with a hyperactive naked Hawkeye would have been a dream come true, but this was frightening. He hadn't seen him like this since Korea.
"I'll be fine! I'm a little woozy, that's all! A little coffee and a little adrenaline and I'll be… oh." Suddenly, Hawkeye had gone very pale. He perched himself on the edge of the bathtub, swaying slightly.
"I'm gonna call your boss," Trapper muttered, tossing the towel aside.
"Oh no! No no no!" Hawkeye rose to his feet again, only to sink back onto the edge of the tub a moment later.
"You're sick! You can't go to work like this!"
"I've worked through worse! Now get outta my way!"
"Hawk, take a day off, get some sleep, go back in tomorrow! We'll say you got the 'flu or somethin'!"
"I can't!"
Trapper was practically tearing at his hair in frustration. "What's the big deal?! It's one day?!"
"Trapper, I already got written up for falling asleep on a gurney in the middle of a shift! If I call in they'll…" He trailed off, his face creasing. "I'm on my last warning," he admitted, mumbling the words like he was ashamed.
"Oh, Hawk…"
"I couldn't help it!" Hawkeye sniffed and wiped at his face with shaking hands. "Do you have any idea what it's like doing back to that kind of work after five years in surgery! Doing nothing but lifting and pushing and fetching for sixteen hours! I'm tired, I'm bored, I can't focus… Everybody else, they just… get on with it! I don't know how! I keep forgetting things, zoning out, falling asleep. I'm lousy! And if I call in, I… I won't just be lousy, I'll be unreliable! And lousy plus unreliable equals fired! Which is exactly what I'll be if you make that call."
The exhausted plea damned near broke Trapper's heart, and he reached over for the black robe on the back of the door, crouching down to gently drape it around Hawkeye's shoulders. "Why didn't you tell me this?"
"I didn't want you to worry. Figured I was doing enough of that for both of us."
"Hawk, what the hell!"
"Trapper, you haven't found work in months! If you'd have known I was about to get fired, it would've scared the crap outta you!"
Shaking his head, Trapper clasped Hawkeye's hand. "You can't go keepin' things like this from me."
"And I can't get fired from an orderly job! I just can't!"
"Hawk, c'mon. It's a lousy job."
"Exactly! It's lousy, mindless, low-paid manual labour! How worthless am I as a human being if I get fired from a job I had to erase my entire education in order to even score an interview?! What good am if I can't even haul gurneys without screwing up! What does it say about me if I can't hold down a job like that?!"
"That they don't deserve you!" Hawkeye continued to shake, and Trapper got to his feet. "That you're workin' yourself too hard an' you're sick, an' I ain't about to stand by an' watch you do this to yourself! As a doctor and as a partner I can't let you! I'm callin' in."
"Trapper, I'm begging you!"
Trapper looked down at his exhausted partner, taking in his pale, gaunt face, and his sunken eyes, and the way he was rocking to and fro, his hands gripping the edge of the tub… "Beg all you want. You ain't goin' to work like this." With this, he walked out of the bathroom, leaving Hawkeye trembling with rage and yelling at his retreating back.
Trapper sat, in silent contemplation, with Hawkeye sprawled out beside him. Rumpled satin sheets around his legs, hair all messed up, skin sweaty and clammy. The picture of debauchery. The vast floor-to-ceiling mirrors on either side of him reflected back the image of the pair of them.
Suddenly, Trapper felt a stab of guilt he didn't much care for.
In that moment, the apartment he hated felt perfectly befitting of their circumstance: here he was, not even divorced, lying in post-coital stickiness beside his male lover, surrounded by tacky interiors, corny seduction gadgets, and satin bed linens. Staring at the chandelier, the afterglow felt sickeningly harsh, like the searchlight of some military operation. Maybe it was the impact of his separation from Louise hitting him for the first time. Maybe it was the trauma of his disgrace and ejection from the army. Maybe it was just the fact that he still didn't feel really at home in this gaudy apartment. Or maybe it was the delayed sense of self-revulsion he'd felt when Hawkeye had tried to…
He didn't want to dwell on it. But, at this precise moment, there was nothing cosy or romantic about this at all. Beyond the glass wall behind him, there was a world and a system that looked upon him as a pervert and a criminal, and, as he lay naked in the harsh light of the day, he could swear he felt their eyes upon him.
The panic he'd felt when Hawkeye had lain on top of him, whispering soothing words of encouragement to him, returned with a vengeance, and Trapper shuddered.
Beside him, Hawkeye stirred. A skinny arm snaked around his waist, and Hawkeye cuddled closer.
Trapper pulled away. "I'm going to take a shower."
He pushed himself from the bed, shrugging his robe on to cover his nakedness for the short trip from bed to bathtub. As he dressed, he glanced once more at Hawkeye as he sprawled on the bed, returned once again to sleep without a care in the world.
Trapper shook his head. He shouldn't be feeling like this! Did Hawkeye ever experience these waves of guilt? This sensation that the entire world was staring at him, judging him? The feeling that he'd done something terrible and monstrous by letting another man touch him? If he did, it seemed he must have gotten past it a long time ago. Trapper could only hope he could do the same. Either that or, like the gaudy apartment, it was something he would just have to live with.
With a sickening sense of finality, Trapper hung up the phone. He'd just had to bluff his way through an awkward conversation with a woman whose voice he recognised and who had asked three times who he was. By the time Hawkeye had managed to stagger his way through from the bathroom, it was all over. Trapper looked up at him. He was a sorry sight, weak and pale, his robe held around himself with shaking hands. He hadn't even bothered to tie the cord around his waist. Trapper tried to remain strong. He'd done the right thing.
"There. Done. You're officially sick. I should know – I'm a doctor. But if Boston Memorial call back, then as far as they know, I'm your roommate." Trapper placed the telephone back onto the coffee table.
Hawkeye scowled at him. "Do I still have a job?"
Looking away, Trapper mumbled his reply towards the rug. "They said they wanna talk to you tomorrow."
"Thanks a bunch!" Hawkeye sniffed angrily, wiping his eyes on the back of his hand. "Thanks for screwing up the first piece of good luck I've had since we got to this lousy, stinking city!"
"Hey! There ain't nothin' lucky about workin' 'til you pass out in the shower! You were runnin' yourself into the goddamned ground! An' all for nothin'!"
Hawkeye eyes narrowed with rage. "I did this for you! For us! I'm working every hour I can to support us! I don't call that 'nothing'! But you… you had to go and… and sabotage everything! I tried… I tried so hard…"
Defeated, Hawkeye sank onto the couch with his head in his hands. He was a pitiful sight, and Trapper was reminded of too many similar times when, in a war-torn continent many miles away, he had sat down on an army cot following a marathon surgery session with that same hollow look in his eyes, or after a harrowing battle with a patient who had hovered on the brink of death for days, only to lose the fight after a week of desperate worry. Only this time there was no war; there were no casualties to piece together or lives to save; there was no higher purpose to his work. There was only Hawkeye and his grim determination to hang on to the last vestige of his professional life.
Slowly, Trapper drew close, crouching on the floor in front of him and pulling his robe a little tighter around him. "Don't try an' kid yourself, Hawk. You ain't doin' this for me. You're doin' it for this damned penthouse. An' I'm tellin' ya, it ain't worth it!"
"Trapper…" He fell silent, struggling to put his thoughts into words as Trapper sat, waiting for him to speak, holding him gently, letting him think. "You're right." The admittance was a quiet, forlorn murmur. "You're absolutely right."
Gently, Trapper took his hands in his own. "There. Was that so hard?"
"I thought I was ready to move on." Hawkeye curled in on himself, weak, trembling hands picking at the loose threads on the black robe he'd come to claim as his own. "I thought I knew: what that discharge meant, what my life would be like – menial work, repetitive, dull, thankless – and I thought I could handle it. Turns out, I can't. These past few months have been harder than my residency! And I didn't know, and I wasn't ready." He gazed thoughtfully out of the window of his overpriced apartment, trying to order his thoughts. "I think I'm in mourning for my career."
Trapper squeezed his hand tenderly. "You an' me both, Hawk." He pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead. "We never said this was gonna be easy, an' there ain't no use in hangin' onto the glitz and the glamour when you ain't even got enough for your bread an' butter."
"I know, but…"
"Hey…" Trapper reached out a hand and tilted Hawkeye's head up, gazing deeply into his eyes. "Look at me. I'm gonna talk plain to you, an' I don't want you gettin' in a snit over it. You hear me?" Hawkeye didn't reply, so Trapper pressed on: "I did not give up my family home in a nice neighbourhood with my beautiful daughters to sit in an empty apartment, no matter how much you like the decor! I didn't give up my career so as I could spend my days alone an' wait for you to come home from workin' nineteen hour shifts! An' if I wanted a partner who barely took the time to talk to me, I should'a stuck with Louise! It's like I said before – we lost everythin' the day we got our discharge papers. If we never get to see one another, what're we even doin' together? I asked ya to move in with me because I wanted to wake up next to you, not wait up for you. An' I love you too damned much to watch you do this to yourself. I saw enough of that in Korea – an' it ain't pretty." He kissed him again. "What I would like to see is you comin' home once in a while, an' stayin' awake long enough to tell me how your day went."
Hawkeye managed a weak smile. "You sound like my ex girlfriend."
Trapper smirked. "I guess I better hope you learned from past experience, in that case."
"I thought I had…" Hawkeye looked away, staring sullenly at the burn mark on the carpet that Trapper's cigar had left the night before. A few hours ago, that would have made him angry.
Trapper gave his hand a squeeze. "Sell the damned apartment, Hawkeye. There's a lotta things more important in life than real estate."
This time, Hawkeye's face suggested that he was beginning to see reason, but even now, he shook his head, despairingly. "It's not that simple." He rose from the couch on shaking legs and crossed the room to the bookcase – the same one where Trapper had found the stack of bills hidden away the day before. One final envelope remained – hidden away between the books. Now, Hawkeye fished it out and handed it to Trapper. He made his explanation even before Trapper could glance at the letter. "The building was about to go co-op right when I bought the place. When I put the offer in, they said I had to opt in or they'd turn me down. Well, it turns out the building's falling down around our ears, and the owners, in an outstanding gesture of generosity, figured they could palm it onto the residents so they didn't have to foot the repair bill."
Trapper's heart sank into his boots as he unfolded the crisp white paper. He'd noticed that the ornate art-deco shell of the apartment building was in need of some work, but he had no idea Hawkeye had invested in that, too! Repairs on a building like that could run into tens of thousands of dollars, and even split between residents… He swallowed and unfolded the bill. "Seven hundred bucks?!"
Hawkeye recoiled to hear it out loud, his eyes screwing closed. "They shared it out based on the market value of each unit. And guess which self-important moron bought the priciest pad in the whole damned building?" He snatched the bill out of Trapper's hands, balled it up, and tossed it across the living room. "If I sell up with a repair bill like that attached to it, I'll be lucky to make enough to pay off the mortgage."
Hawkeye sank onto the couch, and Trapper gently placed a hand on his knee. "C'mon, Hawk – where're we gonna get that kinda money?" Hawkeye was silent. "You gonna ask your pop for another handout?"
"I can't do that. He's a simple country doctor – you've seen how he lives. Most of his patients pay him in seafood!"
"So… where?"
Staring at the floor, Hawkeye wrung his hands. "I figured… maybe if I sold the car."
"Are you nuts?! Your dad gave us that car to help us out! What if we have to find work out of town, huh? What if we have to move? Goddamn it, how d'ya think I'm gonna get over to see my girls without wheels? You think Louise is gonna do me any favours when she finds out I can't get to her place on my own?"
"But if I can make some money back on the apartment…"
"You won't!" Trapper felt guilty saying it, but a glance around his surroundings was enough to tell him that Hawkeye's chaotic attempts at home improvement had done little to swell his investment. "Hawk, look at this place. The appliances are shot, the ceilin' leaks… Face it – this ain't a bachelor's paradise! It's a dump with some fancy plaster mouldin' thrown in an' a chandelier hangin' from the goddamn damp patch! You ain't gonna make a profit on this place 'less you fix it up! By the time they mend that damned roof, we're gonna be up to our eyeballs in debt, and you'll have got yourself a date with your mortgage company – in court!"
"But if I can buy some time!"
"You can't buy time with these people! An' every second you stall, you're just diggin' yourself deeper! Let me tell you, growin' up poor meant I've seen some things you ain't, an' they'll eat you alive if you give 'em half a chance! I'm sorry, but your real estate buddy screwed you in more ways than one!"
Hawkeye flinched at that, but let it slide. For the first time, he found himself looking around his dream home with fresh eyes. Now, instead of his stylish bachelor pad, he saw the TV that only picked up a signal if the wind was right, the chilled mini-bar that frosted up constantly, and the designer light fitting that could never be turned on because it had a tendency to fill up with water. His shoulders slumped and he shook his head sadly, finally beginning to realise: "I bought a dud, didn't I?"
Nodding, Trapper gave his leg a squeeze. "Ya really did."
"God. I'm so sorry!" Hawkeye buried his face in his hands.
"It's okay, it ain't your fault. I think that rebound fling of yours took you for a ride."
Sighing, Hawkeye pulled his feet up onto the couch and lay down, resting his head on Trapper's knee. Trapper's hand reached out, running instinctively along his upper arm in a soothing motion from shoulder to elbow, and back again. For the first time in weeks, Hawkeye relaxed beneath his touch, sinking into the couch as the tension slowly dissipated from his exhausted body. "I'll put in a call today," he said softly.
Trapper could have wept with relief. "Thank you!"
Hawkeye was far from elated, but somehow the act of making the decision had lifted a weight from his shoulders. He wriggled a little, making himself comfortable on the couch and snuggling into the warmth of Trapper's embrace. "I just…" He grasped Trapper's hand and pulled it to his lips, kissing it. "I just wish I had more to offer you as compensation."
Trapper raised his head from the couch, his brow knitted with confusion. "Compensation?"
"For ruining your marriage. Taking you away from your kids and your cushy little town house." His eyes glistened, and he wiped at them with the back of his hand.
His words were something of a shock to Trapper, but Trapper could tell from his exhausted tone that this wasn't the time for a deep discussion over who was to blame for their affair. Instead, he merely smiled at him, held him close, and said: "You offer me plenty!"
Hawkeye shrugged sleepily. "It doesn't feel like it. You've barely seen your kids since we got here; you haven't worked in over six months, and I'm not exactly bringing home the bacon! I figured seeing as how I couldn't offer you the kind of cushy home life you used to have with Louise, I could at least offer you a nice place to live."
"Hawk?" Trapper glanced down at him, his gaze met with slightly bloodshot blue eyes as Hawkeye raised his head slightly from its resting place on Trapper's chest. "Did I ever tell you I hate modern décor?"
Hawkeye stared at him, and, for a moment, Trapper wondered if his confession was going to provoke another rant. Instead, Hawkeye's face erupted into a grin, and he just laughed, and Trapper gave him an affectionate squeeze. "It is kind of tacky, isn't it?"
"It kind of is…"
"The mirrors in the bedroom were fun, though…"
Trapper chuckled. "They sure were."
Hawkeye shimmied closer, wrapped his arms around Trapper and holding on tight, as if to remind himself of what he still had. "It won't be easy, you know: renting a place with our records."
"We'll get by," Trapper stated determinedly. He didn't feel as confident as he sounded, but… they'd got by okay so far. It didn't do to dwell on their fears and worries for too long, and it wasn't like either one of them would be in the right situation to buy anywhere else. He changed the subject. "Now, what do you wanna do with your day off?"
Hawkeye's eyes were already closing, and he mumbled: "Nothing. I just wanna lie here. For about eight hours. And not move. Then I think I might take a nap."
Trapper chuckled, watching as Hawkeye's entire being relaxed in his arms, and he began to snore quietly. 'This,' he thought to himself, 'is what I call luxury living.' Gently, he stroked Hawkeye's hair away from his face, gazing at him as he slept. "You'll hear no complaints from me," Trapper whispered. And, for the first time since he'd set foot in this place six months ago, Trapper felt he was home.