"What's wrong with you, McIntyre?" Margaret asked a couple weeks later.
Things had returned to normal after Trapper and Hawkeye talked. Hawkeye had accepted his apology and the two of them hadn't spoken of the kiss since. Trapper wasn't entirely sure Hawkeye even remembered it. He'd probably drank half of the still before Trapper had come home to find him.
"What do you mean?" Trapper asked, tilting his head in confusion.
"You're flushed," she said.
Okay, so maybe things weren't entirely back to normal.
"Do you have a fever? Oh, come here," she said, reaching up to feel his forehead. Margaret was the only nurse he knew who could be both concerned about and irritated with you at the same time.
He pulled out of her reach. Fortunately she was shorter than him. "I'm fine."
The truth of the matter was Hawkeye had just left the mess tent, winking after a crack about meeting Trapper in the supply hut to "get down to business" (they had inventory duty later). Trapper was flushed because he was blushing. Like a damn school girl.
"If you're sick, we need to know about it so you don't go around infecting the entire camp, Captain," Margaret snapped, with all the bedside manner of a snake. She was trying to reach his forehead again.
"I'm not sick, Margaret," Trapper said as he bat her hand away.
"Fine," she huffed. "But don't come crying to me if it turns out you are."
"And steal Frank's thunder?" Trapper said. "I'm sure no one cries to you like he does."
"Ugh! How dare you!" Margaret pushed through the mess tent door, letting it slam behind her.
This was becoming a problem. After the night in the exam room Trapper had tried to convince himself that Hawkeye had been right. That he was just curious after what he had seen in Tokyo and in a fit of crazy he'd thought to experiment.
But it had been weeks and the dreams weren't letting up. In fact, they were getting worse. More than once he had woken up in the middle of the night and had to take matters into his own hands. Literally. And on those occasions he'd really try to think of a beautiful woman. Lieutenant Dish, or Baker, even his wife. But inevitably, frustratingly, it was always Hawkeye that his mind returned to before he was through.
He felt disgusting for thinking of Hawkeye this way. It was wrong. Not just because he was heterosexual, but because Hawkeye was his friend. His friend who had already made it very clear that Trapper wasn't his type. His friend who wasn't the least bit interested in him.
It didn't help that Hawkeye really did seem to have some kind of compulsive need to flirt with every living being in camp. Trapper hadn't noticed just how much it had happened before, but now that he was looking for it it was almost constant. The nurses, Klinger, Radar, Henry, patients - his friend had a comment for them all.
It was driving Trapper nuts.
But the worst was when Hawkeye turned his attention on him, because what used to just be funny little jokes had become something else to Trapper entirely. Something that made his stomach squirm and his heartbeat irregular. Something that had him blushing so badly that Margaret had noticed.
What the hell was happening to him?
"Some enchanted evening," Hawkeye was crooning as he dug around in a man's spleen. "You may see a stranger. You may see a stranger acroooss a crowded room."
"Colonel!" Frank whined from two tables away. "Can we please have some quiet in here?"
A push was on and the casualties were pouring in. Trapper knew they'd been operating for far too long, because he was actually finding something very soothing about Hawkeye's singing. "Why, Frank?" he asked, tossing a sponge. "Want to be able to hear yourself dropping instruments?"
"Colonel!" Margaret was assisting Trapper, but still made time to defend her hapless Major.
Henry appeared to be ignoring them all, probably in the hopes that everyone would forget he was there if he just stayed quiet.
"I see what the problem is," Hawkeye said, pausing his chit chat to ask for a clamp, then continuing on. "You two want something more patriotic. I've got just the thing." He started making bugle noises with his mouth and produced a version of Revelry that was both obnoxious and better than anything Trapper had heard Radar try to play.
"Colonel!" Frank whined again, while most of the other medical staff began laughing.
"All right, all right," Henry finally spoke up. "Let's knock off the silliness. I'm up to my elbows in intestine here."
Trapper finished closing his patient. "Ready for the next one. Klinger, get this guy to Post-Op."
"Yes, sir!" Klinger replied, snapping into action with another orderly. The man may have been bucking for a discharge with all his might, but Trapper had to hand it to him. When it really came down to it, he always stepped up in the OR. And he still managed to be the most fashionable person he knew.
Trapper took a step back and pulled off his bloody gloves, replacing them with a fresh pair as two more orderlies brought in a new patient for him.
"No offense, Doc," the patient said as he was set down. "But do you think I could get Captain Pierce to work on me?" Trapper had immediately begun examining the soldier's injured shoulder instead of stopping to take a look at the man he'd be operating on. It was a bit disturbing how after several hours, it became easy to forget that these weren't just a parade of wounds, but of people.
He blinked over at the man's face and stuttered in surprise, "Major- uh." Trapper almost called him Major Broadshoulders. He looked up and met Hawkeye's gaze; he'd clearly heard his name and paused his work on his patient long enough to see what was going on.
"Jessop," Major Broadshoulders reminded him.
Trapper was still staring at Hawkeye, whose eyes suddenly flashed with concern as he heard the Major's name.
"Finish closing for me, Kellye, will you?" he asked the nurse.
"Yes, doctor."
Hawkeye tugged off his gloves and trashed them. "Well, well," he said as he pulled on a new pair and approached Trapper's table. "What have we here? I don't usually like to give encore performances."
The smile Broadshoulders gave him was nearly blinding and Trapper could actually see the Major relax as Hawkeye entered his line of vision. "Thought maybe you'd make an exception for me," he said. "I went through all this trouble to come visit, after all." His tone was jovial, but it was clear from the wavering in his voice that he was in a lot of pain, which really wasn't much of a surprise given all of the shrapnel in his shoulder.
"How can I say no to that face?" Hawkeye said, and even though his own face was mostly covered by his mask, his eyes had crinkled into an obvious smile.
What the hell was the matter with Hawkeye? Surely Trapper wasn't the only one who could see this flirting? He glanced around the OR. Margaret was lining up surgical instruments. Other nurses were bustling to and fro, apparently oblivious. Even Frank and Henry seemed to be missing it.
It was then that Trapper finally realized the extent of Hawkeye's brilliance. There was nothing strange about this from him. He did it so much and so often, that even when he was really flirting, in the OR - with a man - no one even looked twice. He'd somehow managed to hide who he was by not hiding a thing.
It was only Trapper knowing more than he was supposed to that made him feel like a voyeur, invading something intimate.
Hawkeye turned his gaze on Trapper, startling him. "I've got this one, Trap," he said.
"You sure?" Trapper said, for some reason not liking the idea.
"Yeah," Hawkeye replied, taking a look at the Major's shoulder. "Ah, this isn't so bad." He was looking at Broadshoulders again. "Probably not even bad enough for a Purple Heart."
Trapper stared at Hawkeye in disbelief as the man used the same words Trapper had said to him the night he'd patched up his graze.
"Oh good," the Major panted, still smiling wryly. "My jacket's getting too heavy anyhow."
There was something about the fact that Hawkeye actually laughed at that quip that took Trapper from annoyed to angry.
"Everyone's a comedian," Trapper said, mostly under his breath. Major Broadshoulders didn't seem to notice, but Hawkeye glanced at him, raising his eyebrows.
"We've got another patient over here!" Radar called, bringing in one to replace the man Kellye had finished closing.
"Guess that one's mine," Trapper said, using that as an excuse to break Hawkeye's gaze. "Since this one's traded up."
"Like I said, Doc," Broadshoulders managed to get out. "No offense. I just know the Captain here has great hands."
"I bet," Trapper muttered.
Trapper wasn't sure what time they'd all finally made it to bed, but when he woke up the next morning, he was the only one in the Swamp. He was pretty sure Frank had Post-Op duty, which left him a bit surprised not to see an unconscious Hawkeye sprawled out on his cot.
Trapper didn't see him in the mess tent either. Or the showers. It wasn't until he shrugged on his lab coat as he entered Post-op that he spotted his friend. Hawkeye was in his red bathrobe, sitting in a chair next to Major Broadshoulder's bed. He was laughing cheerfully at something. Trapper watched him wrap long fingers gently around the Major's wrist, taking the man's pulse.
Trapper didn't know what made him head straight for them.
"Pulse is good," Hawkeye was telling Broadshoulders. "You'll be up on your feet in no time."
"I wasn't worried," Broadshoulders replied with a smile.
"Bothering the patients, Hawk?" Trapper asked, stopping at the front of the Major's bed and making a pretense of looking at his chart.
"Just practicing my bedside manner on a receptive audience," Hawkeye replied, letting go of the Major's wrist and leaning back in his chair.
"Have you gotten any sleep?" Trapper asked, flipping a page on the chart. He'd really have to read it later.
"Of course I have," Hawkeye replied. "I'm sleeping right now."
Broadshoulders laughed at that, and Trapper used all his willpower to avoid rolling his eyes.
"Get going, will you?" Trapper said. "You and the Major here both need some rest."
As if Trapper had given him permission, Hawkeye let out a yawn. "All right," he said around it. "Fine." He patted the Major's arm then stood. "Rest up, Jessop. I'll check in on you later."
"Will do, Doc."
The next time Trapper saw Hawkeye he looked much more rested, showered, and shaven. He was sitting in his chair, sipping from a Martini glass.
"You, me, the supply hut, ten minutes," he said as Trapper entered the Swamp.
Trapper pulled up short, staring at him. Was he being serious? Had Broadshoulder's presence flipped some sort of switch for him or something? "What?" His mouth felt dry.
"Inventory duty," Hawkeye reminded him. "Got postponed with the wounded, but, as Radar just frantically reminded me, it still needs to get done."
"Oh," Trapper said, swallowing. "Right. Of course." He walked over to the still and poured himself some gin.
"I'd be annoyed, but at least it's something to do," Hawkeye said, swirling the gin around his glass. "Hey, you okay?"
Trapper's eyes snapped up from his drink, stomach doing a very strange somersault when he met Hawkeye's suddenly intense gaze. "What? Yeah. I'm fine. Why do you ask?"
"You're all flushed," Hawkeye said, standing up and sweeping across the tent - he could do that, somehow, all long limbs and quick motions - to stand next to Trapper. "Are you getting sick?" He reached out to feel his forehead, much like Margaret had earlier.
Trapper smacked his hand away, a bit harder than he meant to, because he knew - he just knew - if Hawkeye touched him he was going to get even redder. "Don't touch me." It came out sharper than he had intended, and Hawkeye's gaze bore into him for a long, uncomfortable moment.
He wondered, somewhat guiltily, if Hawkeye was thinking about the last time Trapper had said those words. When he'd shoved him away and caused him to cut himself on broken light bulbs. In the supply hut. Where they were going.
Before either of them could break the sudden awkward silence, Frank yanked the door to the Swamp open. "Drinking as usual, I see."
"I'll see you there," Trapper said, downing the rest of his drink in one go and leaving before either of his tentmates could say anything else to him.
He stopped off at Radar's office to get the checklist and requisition forms they would need, then entered the supply hut and surprised a corpsman and a nurse. Fortunately they hadn't gotten too far out of uniform. "Sorry kids, inventory tonight." Trapper tapped the clipboard in his hand. "You don't gotta go home, but you can't stay here."
They sheepishly slunk out of the hut, and Trapper decided to get started. The sooner this was done the sooner he and Hawkeye wouldn't be trapped alone in a quiet, private place that was generally used for more physical activities than counting penicillin. The kind of activities he couldn't stop dreaming about. The kind of activities Hawkeye and Broadshoulders had engaged in.
Stupid Broadshoulders, coming here and invading. Asking for Hawkeye in OR, getting his stupid pulse read, flirting and making Hawkeye laugh - Jesus Christ.
Like a bucket of cold water had just been dumped on his head, Trapper finally realized it.
He was jealous.
Jesus Christ, he was jealous of Broadshoulders. Which meant-
The sound of Hawkeye arriving snapped him from that train of thought. His friend waited until the door was closed to say, "I thought we were past this."
Trapper, dazed from the realization and also planning to ignore what had happened in the Swamp, looked at him in confusion. "Huh? What are you talking about?"
"You tell me, Trapper," Hawkeye said, crossing his arms over his chest somewhat defensively. "You looked ready to deck me when I went to touch your forehead. Is this still a problem?"
"You're crazy, that's - I just don't like getting my temperature taken." It sounded false even to his own ears. "You know I'm a terrible patient. We doctors are like that."
"So you are sick?" Now Hawkeye sounded concerned again. How he could flip from mad to worried so fast was a talent Trapper hadn't fully worked out.
"What? No. That's not what I meant." Hawkeye was eyeing him dubiously and Trapper busied himself looking at the list in his hands. "Can you check how much morphine we have?"
Hawkeye was staring at him, Trapper could feel it. After a moment he heaved a sigh and disappeared behind a row of shelves as he looked for the morphine. Trapper relaxed once his eyes were off of him, and stared at the antibiotics without counting anything.
There was silence for maybe thirty seconds before Hawkeye's disembodied voice came from across the hut. "Plenty of morphine. For once."
Trapper checked it off on the list. "Digitalis," he called.
Hawkeye hummed in thought as he looked for the medicine. "So you're not sick?" he eventually called to Trapper.
"No," Trapper replied.
"Well, good. We need another box of Digitalis," Hawkeye said.
"All right." Trapper wrote that down. "Check the 3.0 and 4.0 silk."
"Righto." He could hear Hawkeye rummaging around. "Hey, how's Jessop?"
"What?" That caught him by surprise. Why was Hawkeye asking him of all people? Then he realized Hawkeye hadn't been on Post-op duty yet, so Trapper was the last one who could give him an update.
"Jessop. My Major?"
"Your Major?" What the hell was that supposed to mean?
"I operated on him, didn't I?"
"Right." Trapper wasn't so sure that's really what Hawkeye had meant. "He's fine. Be out of here in a day or so, probably." Hopefully. Trapper should have just shut up, but he couldn't help it when he added, "Your other patients are fine too. You know, the ones with more serious injuries?"
It fell quiet. Considering how loud Hawkeye could be, it was almost impressive that he managed to remain utterly silent until he popped his head around the shelf with an, "Ah ha!" and scared the hell out of him.
"Jesus!" Trapper exclaimed. "What are you doing?"
"So that's what it is," Hawkeye said smugly.
"That's what what is?" Trapper demanded, trying not to let himself get angry, even though he could feel it building.
"Everything was fine until Jessop showed up. Now he's got you thinking about Tokyo again and, what? You suddenly remembered I like men as well as woman? Are you back to worrying I'm going to try and have my way with you?" He had a semi-amused smile on his face, but Trapper knew him well enough to know that he seemed worried about the answer he might get.
"No, damnit, I'm not," Trapper snapped. "Besides, you already told me I'm not your type, didn't you?"
"I did," Hawkeye agreed, reaching for the clipboard in Trapper's hand. Trapper let him have it, and watched as Hawkeye began writing down what they needed for sutures. He was sure that Hawkeye would notice that he hadn't really done anything. He'd been too busy panicking.
"Right," Trapper said. He wasn't sure what to call the feeling that struck him when he heard Hawkeye confirm it, sober and clear-headed. He was at a loss of what to do now that his hands weren't occupied, so he turned and started rifling through the boxes of gloves to see how many they had. "So that's your type, huh?"
Hawkeye paused in writing and glanced up at Trapper, looking confused and slightly wary about this topic of conversation. "What is?"
"Major Broadshoulders," Trapper said, forgetting about the gloves and giving Hawkeye his full attention. "He's your type."
Hawkeye's lips slowly quirked as Trapper's words sunk in and then he let out a laugh. "Major Broadshoulders? I like that - that's great."
Trapper wasn't really trying to be funny. It somehow made him feel worse that Hawkeye thought he was. "Well?"
"Well?" Hawkeye repeated, before realizing what Trapper was waiting for. "Oh. Yeah, I guess so. Why?"
Trapper shrugged. "I just think you could do better." He reached for the clipboard. He needed something to stare at.
Hawkeye laughed again as he relinquished it. "Better? Than Major Broadshoulders? Oh, that name's going to stick, I can tell already." He was grinning. "Trap, that's like saying I could do better than Hot Lips. I know you're heterosexual but even you have to see that."
Trapper's eyes snapped up from the requisition forms and he realized from the look of surprise on Hawkeye's face that he must have been glaring. He was seething suddenly. "You really don't remember, do you?"
"Uh…"
"The night in the exam room after I patched you up?" Trapper pressed.
"Oh," Hawkeye said. "You kissing me?"
Trapper stared at him, utterly taken aback. "You remember?"
"Of course I remember," Hawkeye said. "If I could really drink until I forgot things, I would be having a much better time of it over here."
"You didn't say anything!" Trapper wanted to shake him.
"Neither did you!" Hawkeye replied. "I figured you didn't want to talk about it."
Trapper opened his mouth to refute him, then closed it again. That was probably more true than he had realized. He didn't continue, unsure what it was he wanted to say.
"Look, Trap," Hawkeye said with a sigh, apparently reading his silence as agreement. "Don't worry. I won't tell anyone. People get curious. I get it. It doesn't mean anything. I don't think you're a homosexual, I promise."
Of all the possible things he could say, Trapper wanted to smack himself when he heard "Am I really not your type?" come out of his mouth.
Hawkeye's eyebrows raised, and he laughed. "Is that the problem? Did I crush your ego?" He reached out and took a hold of Trapper's shoulders and made sure he was looking at him. "Trapper John McIntyre, you are only not my type insofar as I am pretty sure you have no attraction to men. I don't go for heterosexuals, because that's just futile. But otherwise? You are absolutely my type. Captain Roguish Grin, that's what I call you - or it is now. So your ego can rest easy-"
Hawkeye didn't get to finish his sentence, because Trapper's lips were on his so abruptly that not even Trapper had expected it. His hands took hold of Hawkeye's face, clipboard clattering to the floor as he dropped it. A desire to press up against him caused Trapper to push his friend back into the shelf behind him, which shook at the sudden impact but fortunately didn't tip over. Hawkeye was still for a moment, mouth still halfway open from speaking, and Trapper took advantage, deepening the kiss before he lost his chance. Hawkeye sucked in a breath through his nose, and Trapper shuddered as he finally responded, one arm snaking around Trapper's waist, hand gripping at the back of his shirt. Hawkeye still tasted like gin, and Trapper couldn't get enough of it.
He lost complete track of his senses, and he had no idea how long they kissed, pressed up against each other, but when they eventually broke for air, Trapper's hands had moved down to grip at the upper arms of Hawkeye's jacket, and he rested his forehead on the other man's shoulder, suddenly too embarrassed to look at him.
The only sound in the hut for the next several moments was both of them panting, trying to catch their breath. Trapper had kissed plenty of women before, but never had he felt so lightheaded afterward. Hawkeye still had his hand on his back, and at some point his other hand had slipped around him as well, so he was holding him loosely.
"Trap?" Hawkeye eventually said, when Trapper still refused to lift his head and look at him. "You okay?"
"I don't know," Trapper muttered, eyes closed against the green fabric of Hawkeye's jacket. How had this happened? He'd never been attracted to men. Not like this. All he wanted to do was go back to kissing Hawkeye and he had never felt so sure or so guilty about anything in his life. What would his wife think? His daughters?
His head rose and fell, along for the ride, as Hawkeye took a breath. "Look. If that was a mistake then it was a mistake. It's all right. Things happen when people get tired, right? And we've both been tired since we got here." There was a long pause as Hawkeye waited for a response, but Trapper's heart was stuck in his throat. "Trapper?"
He could hear the uncertainty in Hawkeye's tone without even having to look at him. Hawkeye's body had slowly started tensing beneath him. Trapper had a sudden flashback to the exam room.
'At best,' Hawkeye had said. 'We fool around, you realize you made a huge mistake, and then you never speak to me again because that's all you'll be able to see when you look at me.'
"It's not a mistake," Trapper said, and at once he felt Hawkeye relax. "I don't know what it is and I don't know what I am, but it's not a mistake, all right?"
"All right." Hawkeye said. He unwrapped his arms from Trapper's waist. "Now stop trying to seduce me and let's get this done. I've got a nine o'clock curfew and dad hates when boys get me home late."
It was the sense of normalcy from Hawkeye's glib joking that finally got Trapper to lift his head and look at him. "He got a gun collection I should be worried about?" Trapper asked, offering him a faint smile.
"Only if you get me pregnant," Hawkeye returned with a grin.