Author's note: The chapter contains some minor medical/surgical scenes and blood.

Trapper awoke to an irritating brightness, and an unfamiliar musty smell. Opening his eyes, he watched the room come into focus.

The spare room. Ugly, swirly brown wallpaper, faded curtains and stacks of boxes and suitcases. The room for the things that needed to be hidden away. Not his room. Not their room.

He groaned as the memories of last night gradually replayed in his head like some awful horror movie. Had he really tried to apologise to Hawkeye by crawling into bed with him and slobbering all over him? What the hell was he thinking?

Cringing, Trapper sat up and glanced around.

He hated the spare room. Its very existence was proof of their status as undesirable tenants. They tried to rent two-bed apartments in order to maintain the pretence of being 'roomies'. The extra cost put an added strain on their already-tight finances, and the extra room merely became a dumping ground. As he surveyed the cramped little room, Trapper found himself surrounded by evidence of the precariousness of their living situation: suitcases stacked one on top of the other, half of them never unpacked; cardboard boxes folded down but never thrown away; bags of essentials ready to go in case they ever had to make a speedy exit and sleep in the car again.

Part of him told himself he should do so right now. Pack a bag and get out. Instead, he lay there and nursed his hangover.

The bed was covered with a yellow candlewick bedspread that had belonged to Hawkeye's grandmother. It smelled ancient and was threadbare in places where a very young Hawkeye had plucked at the material to relieve homesickness when staying at Granny's place overnight. Trapper ran his hand over the bare patches.

Hawkeye.

He must be awake by now.

Moving slowly to spare his aching head, Trapper sat up, pulled his blanket around his shoulders and swung his legs over the side of the bed. The room lurched a little, and so did Trapper's stomach. When he stood, his head started to throb.

The living room was mercifully empty. If Hawkeye was home, he was evidently hiding out in his room. Their room. Whatever.

As he tried to work out where to go from here, the room started to spin. "Oh, crap…" Trapper dashed through to the bathroom and introduced last night's gin to the porcelain.

Having emptied his stomach and rinsed his mouth, he leaned heavily on the sink and glared at himself in the bathroom mirror. He looked pathetic – red, puffy eyes and a sallow complexion that suggested he was as sick as he felt. A drink of water helped ease the burning in his throat and wash the taste of bile from his mouth for the second time in twenty-four hours, and he returned to the living room with a glass, slouching against the counter of the kitchenette so he could at least look at the coffee. It was then that he noticed the medical kit lying open on the counter, and the bloody swabs in the trash can beside it.

'Fuck.' Trapper shuddered. Had he done that?

The evidence of his violent outburst made him want to throw up again, and he retreated to the sink for another glass of water. There, he found two broken bowls in the bottom of the basin, and Hawkeye's favourite mug was cracked from where he'd thrown it into the water. Trapper set it aside on the counter – maybe he could fix it.

He slunk off to the couch with his water to huddle under his blanket, his mind a swirling mess of regret and resentment. How could he make amends for this? It just seemed like too much. He could glue the cup back together, and Hawkeye could mop up his wounds, but could he ever regain his trust?

Just when Trapper thought he couldn't feel any worse, the apartment door swung open.

Hawkeye looked at him, and stopped, halfway through the door, his hand tensing on the latch as he hesitated. Trapper stared back, wide eyed, almost scared. The space between them seemed immense, and their normally cosy apartment cold and vast.

Hawkeye looked terrible. Pale and tired with puffy eyes, and a clumsy bandage wrapped around his arm that filled Trapper with both alarm and shame. He swallowed, but remained silent. Hawkeye stared. Trapper felt compelled to look away.

At last, Hawkeye reached a decision, stepped inside and kicked the door closed. "You're awake."

He sounded almost casual. Either he was calmer than he was last night, or he was making some attempt to disguise his disdain. Trapper hoped it was the former. He expected the latter. He searched for something meaningful and contrite to say that might aid the situation a little. He came up with nothing, and settled for "what time is it?"

Hawkeye looked at his watch. "Oh, about time for you to be getting home from work. I just called your boss, by the way. Just so you know, right now you're bedridden with a sudden case of the 'flu."

Trapper winced, and squinted through his headache. "She believe ya?"

"Let's just say my acting skills haven't exactly taken Broadway by storm. She said don't bother coming in tomorrow. Or, y'know, ever."

Trapper hung his head in shame. "Shit."

"Oh, and she's sorry to let you go," Hawkeye continued in a deceptively cheery tone. "Clearly has a high opinion of you, although God only knows why."

"Mrs Ferrelli's a real sweetheart," Trapper explained, wringing his hands. "An' I had to go an' let her down…"

Hawkeye snorted. "Right. I mean God forbid you go and disappoint Mrs Ferrelli! Because that's the real tragedy here: that our personal problems had to go and get in the way of the special relationship between you and Mrs Ferrelli!"

Trapper didn't have a response to that.

Dropping his house keys into the pot by the door, Hawkeye shoved his hands on his pockets and wandered over to the couch. "Would you move?" Trapper stared upwards. Hawkeye was standing over him now, and Trapper shrank away. "I want to watch my TV."

Trapper glanced about himself at the wide three-seater he was currently perched in the middle of. 'This couch ain't big enough for the both of us.' He almost laughed. Instead, he shifted over to the poorly-padded wooden armchair and let Hawkeye sprawl on the couch, as far away from him as possible.

Hawkeye stared at the TV, ignoring Trapper. Aside from the tinny blare of whichever World War Two movie this was, the apartment was stiflingly quiet.

"Do ya wanna talk talk?"

Without taking his eyes off the TV, Hawkeye shrugged. "Not really. But I have a feeling you're going to anyway."

Another lull. The dialogue from the war movie filled the gap.

"How's your arm?" Trapper asked.

"Hurts," Hawkeye replied.

It was all the information he was willing to relinquish. Trapper glanced at the blood-soaked dressing on his arm. It looked messy. For a doctor, he knew well enough that Hawkeye had a terrible track record in taking care of himself. "Can I take a look?"

"Want to admire your handiwork?" He turned and fixed Trapper with a cold stare.

"I'm worried about ya. I just want make sure you're okay."

"Do I look like I'm okay?" Hawkeye's lip curled into an angry sneer. "My elbow's sliced open, I can only chew using my nose, and my lower lip is now sporting a fashionable set of teeth marks! I like my lips, Trapper. I happen to use them for at least three of my favourite hobbies."

"I'm tryin' to help." Trapper knew he sounded more whiney than apologetic, but he didn't know what else to do. Saying sorry wouldn't fix things – it certainly wouldn't fix Hawkeye's arm – and in the absence of being able to be a decent partner, he may as well fall back on being a decent physician.

But Hawkeye was having none of it. "You did this!" His expression was pure anger. "What makes you think I want your help?"

Trapper clutched his aching head. He wasn't sure how much of this was hangover and how much was worry. "I get it. I really do. I did a number on ya, an' I ain't about to sit here an' make excuses. You wanna be mad, then be mad. I deserve it. But you shouldn't need me to tell ya, you did a lousy job of that dressin'. That arm looks like it needs a doctor, an' seein' as circumstances bein' what they are, that doctor's gonna have to be me."

Hawkeye thought it over. Wordlessly, he made a little room for Trapper on the couch, his expression still furious, his body language closed and defensive.

Grateful to be granted permission to help, Trapper moved closer. "We can carry on fightin' once I'm done," he said, making a poor attempt at a joke.

"This isn't fighting. Does this look like fighting to you? I'm not fighting – I'm angry. You hit me and I'm angry. Justifiably, I might add." His voice was quiet and even, Trapper noted, which was usually a sure sign that he was enraged. He only ever spoke this calmly with he was extremely mad.

"Point taken," Trapper replied. Gently, he peeled the dressing from Hawkeye's skin. Hawkeye cringed and hissed. "Jesus, Hawkeye…" His arm was a mess. The blood was barely congealing and it had clearly been oozing all night. "This is gonna need stitches."

Hawkeye stared at him. "Stitches? No, no…. it's just a… moderate laceration. Barely even goes down to the bone."

"Oh, come on! This is an infection hazard, an' you know it!"

And gradually, Hawkeye's expression changed from anger to resignation. It was no victory. Trapper had won the debate but felt like he'd lost the damned war. He retreated to the kitchen to wash his hands, not relishing the impending task one but and returned to find Hawkeye holding his arm out like a sulky child. His reluctant patient sat silently as Trapper rummaged through the medical kit, feeling almost nostalgic as he disinfected a needle and suture scissors, and pulled a pair of gloves on over his work-sore hands.

He paused, hesitant to even lay a hand on Hawkeye without his express permission.

"Well, are you going to just sit there nursing your guilty conscience or are were you planning on some actual doctoring any time soon?"

And there was his permission, embittered as it was. Without rising to the comment, Trapper cleaned the wound again as gently as he could. Hawkeye winced and pulled away. Not since his early days as an intern had Trapper felt so uneasy treating a simple flesh wound.

"This is gonna hurt, isn't it?" Hawkeye's voice cracked a little.

Trapper winced. "I'll be as quick as I can."

His words offered little comfort. Hawkeye sniffed and stared at the TV, trying his damnedest to be brave. It wasn't working. As tears welled up, so did anger. "You son of a bitch…"

Trapper swallowed his guilt, disposed of his swabs, and selected a needle. "Sorry I can't give you a local," he muttered as he threaded his needle with 4/0 silk.

"I'd prefer a general." Hawkeye shuddered as Trapper prepped his instruments, barely taking his eyes off the TV. "Think we can manage that? All I need is a big, stupid oaf to smack me in the head so my brain rattles around in my skull. A little harder this time, Trapper."

Trapper licked his lips, and swallowed his shame. "I'll try not to hurt ya," he murmured, his voice tight. "You try not to flinch."

Nodding, Hawkeye resumed his vigil of the television, and Trapper began his task. It wasn't easy. Trapper had treated children with a higher pain threshold. He worked fast, but without an anaesthetic, Hawkeye squirmed and yelped and he had to hold his arm still to stop him from pulling away. Trapper hated every second. His fingertips left bruises. Every stitch felt like he was stabbing into his own guts.

He couldn't understand it. Hurting Hawkeye felt as unnatural as cutting off one of his own limbs. And yet he had caused this. Him, with his vile temper and his denial and has daily after-work indulgence of two beers and a double Scotch.

He tried to push the thoughts from his head. He needed to focus. Another stab of the needle, another pained hiss from his patient. The job was done soon enough, but seemed to take forever. He cut the silk and re-dressed the wound. "You're good to go." He even managed a smile, more out of relief than anything else, as he ripped his gloves off.

Hawkeye glanced at him, his eyes glistening with tears as he grimaced through the pain. "Do I get a candy-cane?"

The joke made Trapper's heart soar. He gave Hawkeye's shoulder a squeeze, and he didn't pull away. "Oh, Hawk…" Almost wanting to weep, Trapper reached out for him, aching to comfort him, to make it all better, but Hawkeye tensed, leaning away from him and pushing him back.

"Trapper, no."

Trapper froze, realising he had mistaken vulnerability for forgiveness as Hawkeye's hand planted itself firmly against his chest. Trapper slid back into the far seat of the couch and rested heavily on his knees, rubbing at his temples. Beside him, Hawkeye pressed himself into the opposite corner, his feet up and his legs bent as if to place a barrier between the two of them. As he looked across at him, Trapper found the stalemate alarmingly reminiscent of a similar stand-off with the former Mrs McIntyre. That one hadn't ended so well, and Trapper couldn't bear to imagine what it would do to him if this one went the same way.

But he had no other tools at his disposal than the same ones he'd used back then. He didn't quite have Hawkeye's arsenal of words and phrases, and so, with no other choice, he fell back on the old ones.

"I can only say I'm sorry so many times."

"Well, that's good, 'cos I was getting tired of that broken old record." Hawkeye shot him a fierce look.

"I dunno what got into me!"

Hawkeye scoffed and turned away. "Oh, same as always, Trapper! Three belts of Scotch and a beer chaser!" He glared at Trapper through the corner of his eye, nursing his elbow. "What were you thinking?" He sighed, shifting tighter into the corner of the couch and hugging his legs up to his chest. "Did you figure you could just blow up at me like that and then blame it on the drink like you always do? Or did you think because I'm a guy it doesn't count?"

Trapper shook his head. "I weren't thinkin' anythin', Hawkeye. I just lost it." It was a lie of sorts. There had been all sorts of thoughts going through his head, but they seemed crazy now, and he didn't much fancy unpacking them. He knew well enough that Hawkeye didn't understand, wouldn't understand. What was the point in delving into his issues? No, better to move on. Make it up to Hawkeye, and… earn his forgiveness, if he could. "If it makes ya feel any better, I spent all of last night lyin' awake feelin' awful."

"Is it supposed to?" Hawkeye shot him a pointed look. Trapper's sorries were meaningless, his remorse futile. He wanted answers not vague, mumbled apologies. He needed Trapper to grow up and spit out the thing that was bugging him! "No, Trapper, that doesn't make me feel better and it doesn't make me feel sorry for you, so spare me!" Frustrated, grasping at straws, Hawkeye tried another approach: "Look, I'm sorry I yelled. I wasn't exactly the most kind and understanding of people yesterday, I know that. I don't know when to shut up, but that does not give you an excuse, and it doesn't make it okay. But whatever your problem is, just come out and say it! Let's have this out in the open and talk like mature grown-ups instead of screaming at each other for once."

But again, Trapper seemed to retreat into himself, arms folded. "It won't happen again. I give you my word."

Hawkeye stared at him, tense and still shaking, his last hopes dashed as Trapper mumbled his empty promises to the carpet. Frowning, Hawkeye grappled for words. "You give me your… ? Your word is worthless! It's not as simple as a few 'I'm sorries' and a night in the spare room doing your time! Things are fucked up between us – don't pretend you haven't noticed."

Trapper sighed. He'd noticed alright. He'd put so much of it down to circumstances – the constant evictions, bouncing from job to lousy job, and the abuse they got in the street if Hawkeye forgot himself and stood too close to Trapper in the sidewalk, or touched him affectionately in public. He'd barely given a thought to the other, hidden toxicity festering away within himself, much less figured out how to express it to Hawkeye.

"Yeah, I noticed alright."

"There is no instant fix for this. You can't put a Band-Aid over us and whip it off after a few days. You can't just… give me promises and an apology and then just hope everything'll be alright! What you did…" Hawkeye fell silent, turning away and gazing at the television again for a moment. He sighed. He was getting nowhere and he knew it. "I don't know what's up with you. I've got a few ideas, but whatever it is goes way beyond anything I can say or do. And you saying you're sorry isn't going to fix it either, because I honestly don't know if I want it fixed! All I know is that there's something you're not telling me. That, and that you're a goddamned mess!"

Trapper almost laughed. He didn't need to be told that. The trouble was he couldn't think of a single shrink in the city who could help him rather than reinforce his neuroses. He felt utterly helpless – trapped in a downward spiral with no hope of a way out. Cradling his head in his hands, Trapper stared at the carpet. "What do I do, Hawk?" he murmured. "Please, for the love of God, tell me what to do."

Shaking his head, Hawkeye shifted anxiously on the couch. "I don't know. I got no answers for you. This is for you to work out… with or without me."

Suddenly, Trapper's gaze snapped up, his eyes widening. "Are you… are you leavin'?"

Oh boy, there was a question! Hawkeye hesitated, licking his lips and shifting anxiously under Trapper's imploring gaze. He couldn't begin to vocalise the thoughts that had gone through his head in the past twenty-four hours. He felt totally paralysed, caught between the urge to get the hell out and the desperation for Trapper to show some indication of wanting to redeem himself. "I don't know," he said again. "I don't know what I want to do." He paused, looking away. His honesty shocked even him, and he knew it must be devastating to Trapper. But maybe that was what Trapper needed? A wake-up call to get him to sort himself out? Hawkeye could only hope.

Trapper, however, was ominously silent.

"Anything you want to suggest?" Hawkeye's tone had an edge to it, waiting for Trapper to make some sort of contribution. None was forthcoming. He rose from the couch, skirted around the coffee table, and hit the button on the TV with a little unnecessary force. "Okay, I'll tell you what I'm going to do: In the interests of feeding us over the next couple of weeks, I am going to go demean myself by going begging for work in some of the dive bars around the block. I saw some vacancies in a few windows on the way to the payphone. If I get lucky with my tips I might even make minimum wage."

His voice lacked his usual acerbic edge – he had been scraping a living for so long it had ceased to be funny. Trapper stared up at him. "Hawk – bar work?"

"What? I've worked bars before – helped to pay for that medical degree that I'm not using any more."

"But you hate–"

"Yeah, well, one of us has to make your child support payments."

Trapper went cold. It always pained him that, whenever Hawkeye was working and he wasn't, he would insist on siphoning off a portion of his meagre income to ensure Trapper didn't get into further trouble with his ex-wife and her phalanx of divorce lawyers. Now, the guilt trip was twice as bad. "Hawkeye, you don't have to…"

"No, I don't, but what can I say? After nine years of partnership I feel strangely responsible for your financial welfare, especially as you've made it pretty damned clear these past few months that I'm the reason your life is a pile of crap!"

"Aww, come on, I ain't ever said–"

"So, I'll help you out with that and the rent at the end of the month, but – and listen to me on this, Trapper – if you haven't… pulled yourself together by then, if you haven't made some serious progress, I'm taking the rest of my money, filling up the car, and taking a long, slow drive to Maine. Alone."

Nodding mutely, Trapper hung his head, his eyes stinging with tears he was too proud to allow to fall. He knew an ultimatum when he heard it. What he didn't know was whether he had the capability to claw himself back from this knife edge. His days were numbered, and his willpower weak. "I… uh…" he tried haltingly, "I understand."

Hawkeye paused. Had he really just said that? Had he really just threatened to leave? Was he being too hard? Too soft? Again, the urge to just bail tugged at him, but the desperation to see Trapper show some glimmer of reformation was pulling just as strong. But he suspected that glimmer could be a long time coming, and he was damned if he was cosying up to him until it showed up. Hesitating, he laid down the final demand of this painful, uneasy truce: "And… I think in the meantime… I'd like you…" He broke off again, his voice shaking a little, then took a deep breath and tried again. "I'd like you to move into the spare room."

Trapper stared at him. The words were spoken as gently as possible, but it didn't lessen the blow. And yet, even as the consequences of what he'd done sank in, that familiar fury rose in Trapper's gut. He wiped his palms on his knees, and crushed the anger inside himself. What kind of an appalling specimen of a human being had he become? He closed his eyes tightly, wanting nothing more than to block out this nightmare. "Okay…" he heard himself saying.

That was where the discussion ended. There were no more words. Trapper felt a sudden desire to leave the room. He got shakily to his feet. He may as well move his things now, before he had time to think about it. "This is just temporary, right?" He sounded pathetic, barely able to keep his voice from cracking. "I mean, uh…" he added, embarrassed, "the spare room smells like mothballs." He forced a hollow, trembling laugh.

Hawkeye looked away, his arms folded tightly across his chest, Trapper's attempt at humour just making him all the more uncomfortable. "Sure," he said flatly. "If I leave, you can have the whole damned place to yourself."

The possibilities those words carried were too much. Trapper didn't dare think about them. Instead, he left the room to pack up his things. Hawkeye flicked the TV back on, sinking back onto the couch as the war movie blared through the speakers, filling the room with the artificial sound of gunfire.