Author's note: It's been a long time since I updated this. I've had a tough couple of years. I finished a postgraduate degree, sold my apartment, struggled to find a job, lost my mother to Alzheimer's disease, got a job, and bought a house. But I've been chipping away at this in the background. Two years ago, I updated on Christmas Day and I wanted to do the same again. There will be four chapters, and I will try to post regularly at 9pm GMT on a Tuesday for the next four weeks. Part 18 is also underway but needs more work. Hopefully it will follow soon. Given the subject matter, these have been a difficult undertaking in terms of sensitive writing, and I hope you will enjoy them.

DAY SEVEN CONTINUED…

Trapper stood on the corner of Tremont Street and Berkeley, waiting for a break in the traffic. When one came, he dashed across, narrowly dodging a bus. His goal? The window of a convenience store on the opposite side of the street, where several dozen little white ads flirted at him seductively. And there, in a pleasant shade of the store, he began to browse.

Affordability was the only criteria. If Trapper was to be a man of his word, as he intended to be, all available resources would be set aside for therapy and whatever other help he may need to try and claw his way back to some semblance of being a reasonable human being, which was, as Hawkeye had made perfectly clear, the first deal-breaker if there was any chance of him sticking around.

The second was his sobriety, and that, he felt, was a long, slow climb which he knew he had scarcely begun.

One week now. He'd been off the booze for a whole week. One week since he'd made a terrified promise in that awful motel room. One week, and he was still going. One week, and Hawkeye was still here. That week felt like a miracle, but he still had far to go. He was still fragile, still detoxing, and only just about in a fit state to venture out into the world and begin the process of piecing his life together.

Now, it almost seemed like a bad dream. He hadn't anticipated just how horrific it would be. When he'd sworn off the booze, knowing his choice was either that or die alone in a gutter somewhere, he'd been painfully aware that everything he knew and cared about was hanging in the balance. He hadn't had the chance to really think about it: his future was on the line, his emotions were raw, and he's just felt in his gut that Hawkeye was right. He needed to stop.

He'd read about the DTs in medical school, even witnessed it from the outside, but cold, dry descriptions in textbooks or fleeting encounters with patients couldn't do justice to how it felt from the inside as the symptoms had wracked his body and pushed his mind to breaking point. How Hawkeye had stayed by his side all that time, he had no idea. The last thing he had expected was to wake up from his detox to find a sleep-deprived Hawkeye sitting at the foot of his bed, emotionally and physically exhausted. Trapper was bowled over by his patience; he knew it was more than he deserved. He wasn't sure whether to thank him or to apologise. He knew it couldn't have been easy for Hawkeye, either; he knew there would have been a few choice things said as he was detoxing. But he was through the worst of it, and that, in Trapper's eyes, and seemingly in Hawkeye's, counted for a lot. This was what progress looked like. It wasn't pretty and it wasn't fun, but it sure beat sweeping things under the rug and making excuses. This, he thought, was progress.

Meanwhile, his anger issues, his shame, his self-loathing– the whole mess that constituted his psyche – they were a long term project, and one he was determined to make good on, too. And then, after that, came the tenuous situation with Hawkeye, whatever that was. He knew well enough how lucky he was. He'd been given another chance, his sins forgiven but by no means forgotten. Not reconciled, but not yet broken. He had never been so grateful in his life. The future was a mysterious, frightening world, but, for now at least, in some form or another, they faced that challenge together.

'In all kinds of weather,' Trapper thought to himself as he dropped to a crouch to view the lowest row of vacancies and squinted at the tiny letters that filled the ads.

"What're ya lookin' for, pal?"

The large, cumbersome figure of the store's owner appeared in the doorway.

Trapper hesitated. 'I'm looking for an apartment to share with my estranged gay lover to see if we can work out our differences and live happily ever after while I deal with a drink problem, unemployment, and a complicated relationship with my sexuality.' Already, his heart started to pound. The anxiety that he had numbed with alcohol for these past two years was more acute than ever now, and he could feel his body responding to the perceived threat, craving its usual sedative to make the fear manageable once more. Even something as innocuous as glancing over property ads brought the shame rushing forth. He swallowed. "Apartments. Two bedrooms, if possible. No more than seventy – we're on a shoe string."

The owner whistled. "You'll be lucky. I got some more ads inside just got filled out. You wanna take a look?"

Trapper thanked the man and followed him inside. He felt uneasy already. The guy looked like he could be some sort of heavy for the Mafia: over-dressed for his job (which suggested a small business owner with delusions of grandeur), he was old and surly-looking, and clad in a 1920s suit that hugged his broad frame, he had a permanent scowl on his face and a suspicious look in his eye. It took all of Trapper's conscious effort to assure himself that the man was not onto him in some way.

"Apartments… apartments…" The store keeper muttered away to himself as he tossed numerous ads onto the counter. Trapper scanned through them. Most were far too expensive. Only one was even vaguely within their budget. Trapper picked the ad up and scanned through it a second time. It was advertised as 1.5 bedrooms (that meant a bedroom and an oversized closet) and was situated at the Chinatown end of Washington Street. That wasn't too far from the bar where Hawkeye was working. "I think I got somethin'," Trapper announced. "I'll be outta your hair in a second – I just gotta take this down."

The store owner leaned over the counter. And then, without warning, he snatched the ad from Trapper's hand. "Oh, no! You don't wanna live there!"

Trapper bristled, humiliated that his limited budget confined him to the undesirable part of town. "Oh, I don't, huh?"

With the ad clutched disdainfully betwixt thumb and forefinger, the man leaned heavily on the counter. "Trust me, pal. Washington Street's goin' downhill fast. Ever since they started closin' down the whorehouses in the West End, that part of town's just become a hotbed of hookers, homos and bums. You're better off in a cardboard box."

Again, Trapper's hackles rose, but somewhere beyond his anger, there was a part of him that latched onto his words, igniting a strange, fearful excitement within him. "What does that mean?"

"Well… you wouldn't wanna live somewhere like that, would ya?"

Trapper stared at him. His face flushed, and he felt like the man's eyes were piercing right into his soul. "No… I guess not."

And then, as he watched, the store owner screwed the ad up and tossed it into the trash. The information, and the moment, were gone.

Rattled, Trapper turned his attention to the remaining affordable offerings that were paraded in front of him. His eyes downcast, his hand shaking as he picked up the pen, Trapper felt a sweat break out on the back of his neck. The shopkeeper huffed impatiently, drumming his fingers on the counter, while Trapper, as if in a trance, scrawled the addresses across his notepad in a shaky, trembling hand. But his mind was not on it. He could not shake from his head the notion that there was a neighbourhood in this very city actually known for homosexual residents. He'd heard of such a thing in San Francisco – in Eureka Valley, where the military had dumped him and Hawkeye, as well as thousands of other blue discharges – but not in Boston. Not here.

Finishing his notes, Trapper's gaze wandered to the trash can behind the counter. His palms began to sweat. His neck prickled.

The storekeeper shot him a glare. "You done? I got paying customers." He gestured to the handful of people contentedly browsing.

Trapper shuddered, licked his lips, and stepped back. "Yeah, I'm done."

"Good. Now get outta here."

Again, Trapper glanced at the trash can. But he said nothing. Still feeling like he was floating, half out of it, he headed for the door, clutching his pad and pen.

The heat of the city hit him in the face like a wall. Hot, dry, and dusty, thick with the scent of engine oil and hot tarmac and just the faintest hint of sewage. He was buzzing, his breath fast and uneven. He'd started walking, God only knew where, pacing down the sidewalk with little sense of direction or purpose. A few of the passers-by gave him a wide berth – Trapper spotted their wary, suspicious glances as they skirted past him, clutching their children's hands – while others bumped into him as he weaved across the sidewalk.

At last, he ground to a halt.

His thoughts were swimming, his head pounding. Maybe it was the heat? The fumes from the cars? The crowds? The torrent of pedestrians continued around him, and, eventually, inevitably, he was shoved out of the way, stepping off the kerb to loiter unsteadily between a pair of parked cars. As he stood there, swaying in the sun, his gaze fell upon the glimmer of glass across the street, where a bar was just opening up for the start of trade…

Trapper's hands started to shake. 'No. No, no, no, no…'

As he watched, a handful of men who had been gathered around the narrow building, awaiting opening time, made their lonely pilgrimage through the door, heads down.

And Trapper turned away.

Glancing back down the street, his gaze turned instead to the store he had just exited, and, with a grim look of determination, he turned on his heel and headed back.

The bell over the door announced his return. "Yo! I'd like to see that ad, please!"

The storekeeper, who was now dealing with other customers, stared blankly at him. "What are you talkin' about?"

"That ad – the one you threw in the trash – I want it!" Trapper gestured with one shaking hand.

"Seriously? You came back for that?"

"I'm not gonna ask again!" Trapper's voice rose, his hand shaking as he jabbed his finger in the direction of the trash can.

The storekeeper's eyes narrowed. "Are you threatening me? Over the contents of my garbage can?"

Trapper blinked at him. "No? Maybe? A little. I ain't sure."

With an irritated sigh, the man extracted the ad from his trash. "Goddamn lunatic," he muttered to himself, tossing the balled up piece of card in Trapper's direction. "Here. Take it. I ain't puttin' that in my window."

Trapper's heart was pounding. He clasped the advertisement to his chest and stepped back out in the street. In the safety of the doorway, he carefully unfurled the crumpled paper. His fingers left clammy marks on the paper, joining the coffee stains and other filth that had already seeped in. He laughed. All this panic over a few lines on a piece of card! The telephone number had been rendered illegible by the damp of the garbage can, reduced to a blurry fog of ink, but that didn't matter. If this place was what rumour said it was, he would gladly walk! He had no idea that such a thing even existed as a 'hotbed of homos' – if there was, he could gladly learn to love the 'hookers and bums', just so long as they didn't make a habit of breaking and entering like his old neighbours had done – but if this was it, then maybe, just maybe, he and Hawkeye could finally get some peace in their lives.

In the absence of a phone number, Trapper did indeed walk. Fortunately for him, it wasn't far, but the sun was hot, his shoes were old, and his respectable 'prospective tenant' suit was stifling. With every block, the buildings became a little more dilapidated, the people he passed in the street a little less smart. Here, a homeless man sat on the step of an abandoned factory; there, a trio of working girls loitered beside a wrecked car, beckoning and smiling to passers-by; and everywhere, embarrassed, shuffling men scanned the boards outside a theatre whose neon displays boasted naked dancing girls.

He turned a corner, and a painted sign in black and white declared in hand-painted cursive: "You have just entered the combat zone. You have nothing to fear but fear itself." It was a message Trapper tried his very best to bear in mind as he ventured into this previously-unknown neighbourhood, which was a far cry from the poor-but-respectable working class areas he and Hawkeye had scraped to afford these past few years. Despite the reassurances of the painted sign, Trapper felt a prickle of unease. This was not the kind of place where he would want to go at night! And yet, were the 'safer' neighbourhoods – neighbourhoods designed to cater for the 'respectable' working class poor – really proving any more secure for the likes of him and Hawkeye?

At last, he found himself facing an old building. There was a bar taking up one corner of it, currently closed, while a narrow doorway and a barred window to the front hinted at an apartment building. The once-ornate stained glass archway above the door was grimy and decayed, several of its panes blocked up with cardboard. To the left was a Chinese buffet, and to the right, a nightclub. Outside the latter, a middle-aged Latina woman was touting for business. She smiled at Trapper, who shook his head. "No thanks, honey. I'm here for the real estate."

She pouted, and tossed her dark curls. "I'm real enough, ain't I?"

Trapper chuckled. There was, he had to admit, an endearing quality to her. Her tight dress and high heels were clearly chosen for their sex appeal, but Trapper noticed, of all things, the ladder in her stocking and the missing button on the front of her dress that had been replaced with one of a different colour. For a moment, Trapper could envisage her at home, hastily stitching the missing button, grumbling that the original had gone missing. 'Real' was definitely the word for her. "That you are, honey," he replied with a smile. "I don't doubt it. But I'm afraid I got other business here. Best of luck to ya." He tipped his hat to her, and turned his attentions back to the address.

As Trapper checked he had the right place and headed for the front door, he heard her address him again. "Ohhh, you're one o' those, huh?"

He froze. Normally, words like that would have been like a red rag to a bull. His pulse was already quickening, his throat tightening, and he struggled to keep himself in check. He glanced at the building he was approaching: funny, there was nothing conspicuous on the outside. Must be something to do with local reputation. Well, that was… hopeful. He turned back to the woman. There was still a smile on her face, and not a hint of menace. Gradually, Trapper relaxed. "Nothin' personal, then," he replied. "You stay safe, now."

"I always do. I got a knife in my garter belt."

Trapper's eyes widened. Her words sounded like a joke, but he really couldn't tell. In the absence of any better words springing to mind, he spluttered, "Great!" and quickly followed with a "Good for you!"

She grinned, and Trapper tipped his hat once more and made his way into the building.

The hallway was small and cramped. An office had been built into the already tiny lobby, eating into the space, and the original stairs on this floor had been ripped out with a narrow, wooden spiral staircase taking their place. The door to the office hung ajar, and Trapper peered round, anxious. "Yo?" He rapped on the door as he stepped up to the threshold.

Inside, he found a mess of paperwork and tools. A lavatory base was sat on its side in one corner, its fixtures and fittings spread out beside it. Against another wall, there were two brand new radiators. A desk filled one wall entirely, and seated at it was a tall, skinny figure, hunched over, talking on a telephone. Trapper surveyed her from the feet up. She was clad in brown corduroy slacks and a cream plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up. A brown tweed vest had been flung over the top, and her ginger hair was cropped short at the back, with the front swept back and to the sides, pinned messily out of the way with Kirby grips. A pair of round, steel spectacles perched on the end of her nose, and she conversed in a hissed whisper.

"Excuse me? Miss?"

She glanced up, eyes wide, and captured him with the most piercing gaze. Her lips were thin and drawn, her skin pale to the point of sickliness, with a smattering of freckles, and her features gave her a slightly mousey look. She reminded Trapper somewhat of Radar, but when she finished her call and turned to Trapper, he couldn't have been further from the truth.

"What do you want?"

Her accent was thick – Brooklyn, Trapper placed immediately – and her voice was shrill and nasal. She looked at him with a no-nonsense approach, sitting back in her chair with one foot up on the desk.

"Uh… I'm here about the apartment."

The young woman rolled her eyes. "Aw, goddamn it! Can't you read? I don't got time to be playin' realtor – not on my pay. Listen! You go away, call the number on the card, an' make an appointment like everybody else!"

"But the number–"

"Make a damned appointment!" she bellowed.

"Okay," Trapper blurted out. "You tell me – when's a good time?"

Lighting up a cigarillo and waving the match out, the woman rolled her eyes at him. "There ain't no such thing as a good time, buddy!" She got to her feet, hitched up her tool belt, and took a drag on her smoke. "I got a boiler blown up on fourth, an' 3C needs a new toilet, an' I got a dumbass supplier who just sent me 48 spark plugs when I asked for light bulbs!" She kicked a cardboard box by the door. "I mean, what am I gonna do with four dozen spark plugs, huh? So why don't you take your ass back to the subway, an' call us up like a good boy? Go on now!"

Grabbing Trapper's arm, she propelled him towards the door.

"Hey, wait a minute!"

"I ain't got a minute, buster!"

Trapper grabbed the doorframe as he was dragged unceremoniously back out to the street. "Would you knock it off?! Listen, I don't mean to throw your day outta whack, but I ain't got time to be screwin' around here! I'm livin' outta a motel! My place got trashed an' if I don't find somewhere soon, I'm gonna wind up on the street!" He knew he sounded pathetic, but something told him he could be honest with her. And if he was wrong… well, what did it matter?

His words made her pause, and a moment later, the woman from outside dashed up to the front door. "Hey, hey, Dylan! It's okay! Lay off the new boy – he's clean."

The red-head – Dylan, apparently – relaxed a little. "Now you tell me! Jeez, Marisol! Where the hell were you? I was about to toss the poor bugger out on his hiney!"

Marisol pouted. "I had to take a leak!"

Dylan made an irritated grumble, released Trapper, and headed back inside. Grateful, Trapper straightened his tie, and gave Marisol a grateful nod. "Thanks!"

"Go on now!" Marisol grinned, standing before him like a superhero, hands on hips, looking like Wonder Woman in fishnets. "Before she loses her patience with you!"

Trapper laughed – it seemed a little late for that – and followed Dylan inside. He found her rifling through her desk, looking for an application form. She gestured to him, and finally ushered him out of the office, kicking her box of misdelivered spark plugs along the way.

"Dylan, huh?" Trapper grinned as he was ushered back into the lobby. "Funny name for a broad, ain't it? Your parents hopin' for a boy or somethin'?"

Dylan scowled at him. "Who are you callin' a broad?"

"Sorry."

"An' what makes you think my folks had anythin' to do with my name? Not bein' funny, but folks round here – we ain't exactly on the best o' terms with the folks back home, if you catch my drift."

Trapper could relate to that much – he hadn't seen his folks in almost ten years now, and that didn't look to be changing any time soon. "Consider it caught."

"What do they call you, anyway?"

"Dr. McIntyre – John – but I go by Trapper."

Dylan smirked. "Your parents hopin' you'd go into the fur trade?"

Trapper chuckled, and relaxed a little. "Touché…"

Dylan laughed, and offered him a cigarette. "You'll have to forgive our unconventional security," Dylan explained as she showed Trapper upstairs. "We can't trust just anybody. Lot of undercover cops round here, you know what I'm sayin'?"

Trapper nodded. It seemed he was beginning to. "Right."

They continued the ascent, up… up… up, into the highest reaches of the old building

"Marisol lives in 5B, so she'll be your neighbour. She's a nice lady – an' she's out a lot, so she's quiet. I'm in 3C, if you need anythin'."

"An'… what is it that you do?"

"I'm maintenance! What do you think this thing is – a fashion accessory?" She hitched her tool belt up again. "This'll be you." She nodded towards the door to 5A, and unlocked it with a rattle. "Try not to get too excited."

The apartment door opened, the hinges squeaking a rather weak fanfare to their arrival.

It was nothing to get excited about: the floorboards were bare, and the fresh whitewash on the walls looked like it was concealing some rather ancient plasterwork and peeling wallpaper. A bare lightbulb hung from the ceiling on a grubby cord, but lit up well enough when Trapper flicked the switch. "Spark plug works," he joked with a grin.

"We use sixty watt spark plugs in all the apartments. Keeps the bills down."

Trapper laughed again, feeling more at ease every second.

The apartment was small. The kitchen was separate, leading right off from the living room, and there was barely room for the table and chairs that had been crammed inside. On the other side of the living space, there were two doors.

"Master bedroom's through here," Dylan explained, opening one. The room was spacious enough, although the view was of a brick wall. "Bathrooms on every floor – shared. And there's a fold up bed in the box room." She opened the second door, revealing what was essentially a large closet with a fold up bed shunted to one side, not all that dissimilar to the army cots he and Hawkeye had been landed with in Korea. "It's a 'two bed'," Dylan explained pointedly, with air quotes, "in case anybody asks." She rolled her eyes heavenward.

Trapper's heart soared. It was like she was speaking his language. It was like he had just… walked into a place and somebody got it. He'd never felt so relieved in his life! He smiled, suddenly finding himself getting emotional over a walk-in closet with a camp bed in it. "Good to know."

"Your other half comin' for a look around, too?" Dylan asked. "Just so we know to expect somebody."

Her question caught Trapper off guard. He glanced down at the wedding band that encircled his ring finger. From anyone else, the question would have felt like a can of worms just waiting to be opened. Even now, it felt dangerous. Trapper felt himself starting to tense up, and a lump formed in his throat, like his body didn't want him to speak the words out loud and betray himself. He swallowed. "He's at work right now." Trapper forced the words out.

That was it. It was out there. He'd just answered the question, and the world hadn't ended. No careful mincing of words, no switching or avoiding of pronouns, no outright lies about a wife or girlfriend.

At the doorway, Dylan continued the conversation like nothing had happened – like Trapper hadn't taken the biggest step of his life right there in that room. "Well, the bar downstairs is open 'til twelve, so any time he wants to stop by, he can come take a look."

Trapper's hands were shaking. "It's okay, that uh… won't be necessary." He didn't fancy getting into the intricacies of his separation – not with a perfect stranger – but how surreal it was that suddenly that was the complicated part! "I'll take it," he said, perhaps a little hastily. "I got cash on me right now. You got paperwork?" He was already fumbling in his pocket.

He felt like a weight had been lifted – and it was a weight that he'd been carrying around since Korea.

Dylan nodded. "Right. Okay, so that's sixty-eight fifty a month, one month up front, and another for the deposit. Oh, and twenty bucks security for your first quarter. So that's…"

"A hundred and fifty-seven dollars." Trapper went cold. He had one-forty in his wallet, and that was everything they could afford. They'd paid for ten nights at the motel up front to get a cheaper rate, so possibilities of a refund were slim, and Hawkeye wouldn't get paid until Friday. "Twenty bucks security? But ain't that the same as a deposit?"

She looked at him like he was a moron. "No! Security is twenty dollars a quarter – every quarter. Due on the dot, or you're puttin' us all in danger."

Trapper's eyes widened. "You mean like… 'security' security? This is a mob thing?"

Laughing, Dylan shrugged. "In a manner of speakin', yeah." She said.

"What kinda manner are we talkin' here?"

Another laugh. "Boston P.D.! We pay the cops off, so they don't come round bangin' on doors, an' they look the other way when the super 'forgets' to run background checks on new tenants!"

Trapper needed to sit down – this was almost too good to be true! But… "I'm seventeen short," he confessed, wiping his palms on his suit. "But I got one-forty burnin' a hole in my back pocket that I can give you right now!"

She waved her cigarillo at him dismissively. "No dice. Everybody pays security."

"Please! Honey, I need this apartment! This is all I got!"

"If I make an exception for you, I gotta make an exception for everybody! Ain't nobody 'round here rollin' in money. The super can't put your application in 'less you pay your dues. Too much risk."

"Well, can ya hold it for me 'til tomorrow? We can get you the full amount – Friday at the latest – but this is all we got right now. Come on, honey – please?"

Dylan pursed her lips, and put her hands on her hips. "First of all, you call me 'honey' one more time, I'm gonna break your nose. Second of all… you need to speak to the super."

"Where can I find him?"

Dylan snorted. "C'mere." She gestured to Trapper to follow her, locking the apartment behind them. They followed the creaky spiral staircase to the ground floor, back out into the street. Then, turning, she headed for the door of the bar downstairs, and pulled another set of keys from her pocket. "Step into my office, please…" The door opened, and Trapper was ushered inside to the darkened drinking establishment.

The smell of oak, liquor and cigarette smoke assaulted his nostrils. The bar was old, like the rest of the building. The décor looked like something out of the twenties, save for a few mod cons like the jukebox and the electric lights that were suspended over the dance floor. The leather seats were ripped, the woodwork tarnished, and the art deco tiles on the walls could have given the place quite a bit of value, had they been carefully preserved – which they hadn't.

The lights were off, and Dylan made no move to remedy that as she locked the door behind them, pushed past him and headed for a back room. "Have a seat," she tossed casually over her shoulder before vanishing.

And Trapper was left alone.