This was, absolutely, the last place in the world Trapper wanted to be on his own. In the empty stillness of the bar, his gaze was drawn irresistibly to the line of bottles glinting in the daylight that penetrated the gloom through the grubby windows, calling to him. Trapper's palms grew sweaty. His hand started to shake. 'Shit!' He could hear his breath growing louder and more rapid in the silent room, and he had to turn away to focus on something – anything! – to take his mind off it.

The woman in the red dress made for a welcome distraction.

The sound of the office door banging closed heralded her arrival and made Trapper jump out of his skin. For a moment he had thought Dylan had returned, but this was someone new: a slender yet powerful-looking black woman, stunningly beautiful, and dressed like she had stepped off the cover of Vogue. Trapper looked up, blinking a little as she drew closer. She was tall – as tall as Trapper, even without her heels – and her head was haloed by the most immaculate back-combed blonde beehive money could buy.

She cast him over, a curious expression on her face. "Can I help you?"

Trapper stared back, a little unsure what to say. He'd seen drag queens perform in shows before – in a somewhat more 'risqué' geisha house in Tokyo, which Hawkeye had taken him to – but there was a big difference between a floor show and a civilised conversation. And she was dressed more for business than pleasure, her dress smartly cut, tailored, and stylish. And now, Trapper, being the new boy on the gay block, he felt horribly out of his depth, intimidated by both her beauty and presence.

"Uh… I… uh…" Stumbling over his words, Trapper wiped the sweat from his brow as he tried to push the desire for a Scotch out of his mind and focus on the conversation in hand. He failed. Reaching out, he extended a hand to steady himself on the bar, suddenly queasy.

"Are you feelin' okay?" The woman in the red dress grew closer, her head cocked and eyes narrowed as she surveyed her peculiar customer with a note of concern.

"Actually, now that you mention it…" Only now did Trapper realise that he had collapsed onto one of the bar stools, his legs having had a bit of a funny turn around the same time the rest of him had. This place... the smell of the spirits in the air!

"Can I get you a drink?"

"No!" Trapper almost shouted. That was the last thing he wanted! "No, no, please, I can't."

"Of water!" She gave him a pointed look, reaching over the bar for a glass. "We don't give liquor away for free here. Gotta make a livin' somehow."

"Oh. Oh, uh… yeah, thanks."

As she filled the glass from the tap, Trapper removed himself from the temptation of the bar, settling himself in one of the booths by the window, where he could watch the foot traffic outside and try to forget how much he would like a belt right now.

A glass of water was placed in front of him, and he smiled up at his kindly hostess. "Thanks."

"You looked like you needed it."

"You got that right!" Trapper gave a chuckle as he gratefully took a sip of his drink – she'd added ice and a lemon as well! "You work here?"

She rolled her eyes. "No, I'm just the friendly neighbourhood burglar – I slipped in the back to empty the cash register but decided to take a load off an' start waitin' on random strangers just for the kicks." She smiled and held out her hand. "I'm Audrey."

Trapper shook the offered hand, mindful of her long, scarlet nails. "John McIntyre. I go by Trapper."

"So, what brings you here?" Audrey slipped into the booth opposite him, hands clasped neatly in front of her, fingers carded into a perfect, delicate V, like a tiny mountain with blood red nails at the peak.

"I'm here about the apartment upstairs," Trapper explained as he gulped down some more water. "The chick… um, I mean the maintenance lady… she's gone to find the super for me, see if I can't put it on a reserve."

"Oh, she has, huh?"

"Yeah. I ain't quite got the dough for the deposit. I'm kinda… between places right now, livin' outta a motel out on Route One. A guy in a convenience store said this area had somethin' of a… a reputation. I thought… I thought I might be safer here." The words were a struggle. Even here, even now. He knew well enough what he'd just insinuated.

Audrey nodded, and reached over to pat his hand gently. "A lot of people think that, honey. And we do try, we do try."

Relaxing a little, Trapper finished his drink and set the glass down, sighing. "You been workin' here long?"

Audrey gave a shrug and folded her arms. "Long enough. I know the way things operate in this neighbourhood, and I do the best I can with the work I do."

Trapper smiled. "Cabaret?"

Audrey blinked at him. "Excuse me?"

"I'm guessin'... from the costume."

"Costume?" Audrey pursed her lips, her eyes widening a little in an expression that was more irritation than genuine confusion.

Trapper paused, realising in one awful moment that he'd just opened his mouth and inserted his foot. "I uh... I mean, you said you worked here."

"I do."

"And uh... I mean... not that I got much experience, but last time I saw a drag queen–"

"I'm the supervisor."

She stared at him, arms folded, spine ramrod straight, and Trapper felt like he wanted the ground to open up. "Oh. I... I'm sorry. I-I-I-I-I feel we've got off on the wrong foot here." As if on reflex, he stood, as if somehow he could reset the whole conversation if he just took his seat once more. As he did, his hand knocked the glass, which went flying and smashed onto the floor. "Oh, shit! I'm sorry!"

"Oh, hush your flappin'!" Her voice was loud, and the hand she banged on the table wasn't much quieter.

Trapper hushed.

"And sit down."

Trapper sat.

"Now lookie here, new boy," Audrey explained, one red talon wagging at Trapper like an unusually glamorous schoolmistress, "first of all, the only drag I wear for my job is when I turn up at the landlord's office in a suit an' tie to drop the rent cheques off at the end of the month. And secondly, if you're gonna get along here in the Combat Zone you can't go fittin' like that every time you learn somethin' new about somebody that don't fit in with your previously-assumed world view. There's all sorts o' folks around here, an' some of 'em do things that'll make your eyes pop out an' your hair turn straight. But we learn to pay it no mind here, 'less somebody's gettin' hurt – in which case, we mind."

Nodding mutely, Trapper hung on her every word.

"But," she continued, her tone softer now, hands planted firmly on the table, "if you're lookin' for somewhere you can... fit in, be yourself, feel safe, then you got it. Our only condition is that you extend that same favour to folks other than yourself."

Suitably chastised, Trapper nodded, laying his hands on the table, palms down, as he contemplated the offer. "I can do that," he replied. The irony was not lost on him that he found it far easier to be respectful and understanding of other people than of himself. Or of Hawkeye, for that matter. There was something about Audrey's proud defiance in the face of insult that reminded Trapper of Hawkeye, and yet if Hawkeye were to have a soap box moment like that in public, Trapper would most likely die of shame. The hypocrisy of his foolish mind was not lost on him...

In the silence that followed, Audrey seemed to survey him from her vantage point across the table. Her eyes narrowed, and a small smile appeared on her face, like she took pleasure in the act of reading him. "Let me guess," she mused, her voice gentle, not quite trusting, but not accusing either, "you're new to all this. Fresh outta a nice, safe marriage, wife tossed you out, trying to... find yourself? Not even had the guts to take her ring off your finger, you're so unsure of yourself."

Trapper laughed. How could she be so wrong and so right? "You're... close, sorta. But the uh... the findin' part is... takin' a little longer than expected." He paused, toying with his wedding band. "I've been livin' with a guy these past eight years. He gave me this." Trapper waved his hand and wiggled his fingers.

"Oh? So you're all settled?"

Shaking his head, Trapper dropped his head. "We ain't together right now. Things... fell apart, y'know? An' it weren't even him. Not even a little bit. It was all me. We're... kinda separated right now while I try an'... sort myself out."

Audrey regarded him through half-lidded eyes – eyes that seemed to know so much, must have seen so much. "You drink," she assessed with barely a moment's thought.

It wasn't that hard for her to figure that one out, based on Trapper's response when he thought she was offering him liquor. He nodded. "I did," he confessed, "up until a week ago."

For a moment, Audrey's gaze flickered across to the bar, but she didn't say a word.

In the gap in the conversation, Trapper felt compelled to continue, to explain himself. "I uh... I ain't ever really been comfortable with myself, y'know? It's been gettin' worse these past coupl'a years. I get in these... dark moods over my life an'... an' who I am. An' then I get bombed an' I... I take it out on him." The confession felt like he'd just purged something he'd been choking on. He wasn't sure if he wanted to cry or throw up, and so, in the absence of any clear course, he did something that was a strange combination of the two and suffered a sudden coughing fit. 'Oh yes,' he thought, 'a psychiatrist is gonna have a field day with me.' Standing, he groped about himself for a handkerchief, feeling himself turning red. He couldn't believe he'd just divulged all of this to a perfect stranger! And the supervisor of the apartment he wanted to rent, no less! What a fool! "I'm sorry," he spluttered, failing to find a handkerchief and wiping his mouth on his sleeve. "I'm probably not what you're lookin' for. Forget it."

"Sit down!" Audrey said again with a roll of her eyes. Her hand dipping into a pocket on the front of her dress, she tossed him a handkerchief. "Such a drama queen! You think you're the only one round here with problems? Everybody here got problems! Problems come with the territory. I got kids young as fourteen tossed out by their parents. I got girls and boys livin' just across the hall turnin' tricks to make ends meet, an' me an' my girl Dylan doin' our best to keep an eye on 'em, makin' sure none o' those johns turn nasty. I got a disgraced politician, one disinherited debutante, an' just about every one of us carryin' around the usual scars and baggage that come from goin' through life labelled a queer. You wanna talk problems? We got problems." Here, she gave a small nod. "You want help? We can do that, too."

Trapper stared at her. It was like something was falling into place. From a coincidental conversation in a store, it seemed he'd found what he was looking for. But... there was one catch. "Look, uh... you know my situation here. If I had the money I'd throw the deposit down right now, but I'm short the security. I got one-forty an' that's it, but I can get you the rest by Friday."

"Hmm, you said." Audrey pursed her lips and turned to glance over her shoulder towards the office. "Well, let's see if we can't fix somethin' up for you. Dylan! Honey, you back there?" A pause, and she raised her voice a little more. "Dylan!"

Trapper winced. The office door banged in Dylan's wake, and the bespectacled caretaker returned. "There you are!" she gestured to Audrey. "When did you come down here?"

"Delivery, about ten minutes ago."

"Huh. I've been callin' the apartment."

"On the phone? We live upstairs!"

"Five storeys up!"

"You got legs, don'tcha?"

Dylan snorted and hitched up her tool belt. "Fuck that," she said.

Giggling, Audrey turned her attention back to Trapper, as Dylan handed her a crisp, white form. "Okay, new boy, listen up. I like you. You got a lot going on right now, and you're clearly in a fix, but you're our kind of people, and that counts for a lot round here. Let's have your details, and we'll see what we can't do about that security money on Friday, huh?"

Sighing with relief, Trapper dug around in his pocket for a pen, and began to fill in the forms.

"Oh, and one other thing," Audrey added. "You said somethin' about... a drink problem?"

Trapper swallowed. "Is that gonna affect my application?"

Audrey shook her head. "Nuh-mm. But just so's you know, you come into my bar, no matter what time, no matter who's on duty, you're gettin' served nothin' that ain't OJ, soda, or ice water. You got me?"

Trapper nodded, and smiled. "I think we're on the same page there." Turning his attention back to the form, Trapper felt a warm glow starting up in his very core, and for the first time since he'd left the motel that morning, he felt himself relax. But, when he got to the bit about employment, he paused. "I uh... I ain't workin' right now, but... Hawkeye – that's my... well, he's my former, but he's... y'know – he's still helpin' me out, so maybe he could..."

With a nod, Audrey waved him on. "Just bring him in sometime between now and Friday and we'll sort something." She winked, and Trapper managed a weak smile.

He continued with the form, filling out the bits on Hawkeye's job as best he could. Above him, he noticed Dylan lean down to whisper in Audrey's ear. He couldn't make out the words, but he saw Audrey nod, and Dylan's expression turn serious.

"Is there a problem?" Trapper asked, half expecting someone to yank the rug out from under him any second.

"No," Audrey assured him.

"Just bring this guy in," Dylan replied, considerably less breezy. "If he's payin' your way, I'd like to talk to him."

Trapper flushed a little at the implication. It sounded so... bad: Hawkeye paying his bills, his rent! "I'm not a freeloader or nothin'!" he protested, arguing with an objection that had not even been made. "I'm tryin' to get a job! This ain't permanent!" Damn right it wasn't. Nothing about his current arrangement with Hawkeye was permanent. Everything was in flux.

"We get it," Dylan muttered, swaying to and fro with her thumbs hooked into her belt. "That's not my problem. Your job, his job... it don't matter what you put in there, just so long as the rent gets paid on time. But I do wanna see the guy who's payin' it. Audrey's soft on people, but I ain't. Bring your guy. We'll talk."

With these words, Dylan took herself off back to her little office, presumably to continue her pursuit of lightbulbs. Trapper watched her go, and then grinned at Audrey. "She's a real firecracker, your girlfriend."

Audrey raised an eyebrow. "A little respect, please." She smirked, a look of delighted self-satisfaction filling her eyes. "That's my wife."

Trapper dashed across town to the agreed meeting point as quickly as his legs could carry him. He arrived footsore and exhausted, relieved to find that Hawkeye was waiting patiently.

"Where have you been? I've been driving around the block here for the past twenty minutes!"

Well, maybe not that patiently.

"So far I've had two accusations of kerb-crawling, three offers of a good time, and I'm cultivating a beautifully asymmetrical sunburn on my left arm."

Trapper gave a grateful sigh as he dropped into the passenger seat of the Oldsmobile, wrestling with the seatbelt. "Sorry," he said as they pulled away. "I got caught up somewhere."

Hawkeye took his eyes off the road momentarily to give Trapper a pointed look. "Caught up or tanked up?"

Trapper gave him a look. "You don't trust me?"

"You're not trustworthy."

"Granted."

"Let me smell your breath." Hawkeye leaned over.

Trapper rolled his eyes. Hawkeye's distrust of him stung, no matter how well founded it was. "Oh, come on, Hawk!"

"We agreed on this!"

"Would you keep your eyes on the road already?! You're gonna kill us!"

"Then hurry up and breathe on me so we don't die!"

Relinquishing, Trapper exhaled in the desired direction, and Hawkeye, mercifully, returned his attention to the road.

"Okay, I concur. You're clean. Day seven, and counting." They pulled onto the main route towards the freeway, merging into the rush hour traffic and slowing to a crawl as the daily snarl-up closed in around them. Hawkeye stared into the middle distance, his fingers drumming impatiently on the wheel. "One week. I'm proud of you." The words were spoken softly, barely audible over the din from the outside.

Trapper turned, his eyes widening to hear praise from Hawkeye's lips. Thus far, Hawkeye had assumed an almost doctorial role, supporting Trapper through his detox the way a medical professional would. The future of their relationship hung in the balance, but Hawkeye acted as though he had no emotional investment in Trapper's recovery whatsoever, holding his hand and wiping his forehead with calm resilience and detached, clinical sympathy. Trapper sensed it was a barrier he'd put up deliberately – after all, they were technically separated, in theory if not in circumstance, and Hawkeye couldn't let himself be drawn into feeling too sorry for Trapper if he failed – but those four little words, spoken from the heart, were the closest he'd gotten to showing feeling.

"Thanks, Hawk," Trapper replied, a tiny smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.

"You're welcome." Hawkeye gave a nod, not taking his eyes off the road as he navigated the busy freeway.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Trapper longed for Hawkeye to turn around and grin one of his big, silly, soppy grins at him – the kind of thing he used to do that drove him nuts when they were first together and would terrify the life out of him – or for him to start reaching across to hold his hand as he had once done whenever they had sat, bored, in a never-ending tail-back, only for Trapper to refuse on account of other drivers being able to see. Hawkeye had been so reckless at one time, so unapologetic in his love for Trapper, his affection boundless. Trapper hadn't appreciated it until it was far too late.

There were a thousand words he could have said, expressing his regret, his guilt, in that very moment. But it wasn't the time. Maybe it never would be, and that would be something he'd just have to deal with. And so, instead, they sat in silence, side by side, each quietly contemplating his own thoughts as the vast snake of traffic carried them onwards to their temporary home.

The proprietor at the motel was, as Trapper has predicted, determinedly reluctant to offer any refunds. He'd cursed Trapper out in both English and Italian, and then gone off on some rant about customers always wanting something for nothing.

So, that was a dismal failure. Defeated, Trapper left the office and hauled himself back across the parking lot to his and Hawkeye's little room, whereupon he threw himself on his bed with a feeling of both despondency and rage.

He hated this place.

The motel room had, over the past week, gone from cosy bolt hole to a cluttered purgatory. With their stuff piled up in every corner, navigating their cramped space was only fractionally easier than finding things – which was impossible. It was like their quarters in Korea, with far too many things and far too little, all at the same time, crammed into a space far too small.

The bathroom door opened with a creak. Wrapped in the largest of the motel's tiny, scratchy towels, Hawkeye tiptoed through the boxes, making his way to his bed. After stubbing his toe on a suitcase, he finally reached his goal, flopping onto the thin mattress of his bed, cursing and clutching his foot.

As Hawkeye wailed and yelped in agony, somebody in the next room thumped the wall. Hawkeye thumped back. "Yourself!"

Trapper twitched. What their neighbour took offense? What if they came knocking? What if something about their situation – two guys sharing a room – gave them away? What if…?

Trapper tried his best to calm his racing thoughts. His hands clenched and unclenched. Christ, what he wouldn't give for a…

No, mustn't think like that. He should think of something else, do something else. "Hey, Hawk?"

"Yeah?"

Trapper looked over. Hawkeye was currently attempting to wrestle his boxer shorts on underneath his towel. Flushing a little, Trapper looked away. "Uh… I was wonderin', d'ya fancy goin' out somewhere tonight?"

Hawkeye's head whipped round. "Going out?"

Trapper backpedalled. "I didn't mean like… 'out' out. Just, y'know, go do somethin', 'stead o' hangin' around here like a couple'a loose ends."

Towelling his hair, Hawkeye continued to gaze at him. "You feeling antsy?"

This, Trapper knew by now, was code for 'do you feel like you want a drink?' Hawkeye had, over the past week, adopted numerous way of asking about Trapper's drinking without ever actually using those exact words. "I've been better. It ain't so bad though. I mean, it ain't exactly all sunshine an' rainbows in here–" he tapped his head with one finger – "but… I kinda just wanna… show you somethin'."

Hawkeye froze. "Forgive my vanity, but if you're planning on making some grandiose, romantic gesture, I'm going to have to stop you right there…"

"It ain't nothin' like that!" Trapper did his best to pretend that didn't hurt. "I just wanna show ya… a place I found."

"An apartment?"

"Sorta. It's a little more than that."

"A house?"

"No. Well, it's kind of a… building. An apartment building, an' a… a bar."

Hawkeye's response said it all before he even opened his mouth. His shoulders sagged, his eyes widened. Everything about him radiated disappointment. "A bar? Are you kidding me? After all this? After everything...?" Hawkeye threw his hands up, and spun in tiny circles on the small space of carpet that was occupied by neither furniture nor cases. "I mean how... how? How could you think... or did thinking even enter into this? Or even... or..." Finally, bereft of words, he grabbed his case. "Right, screw this! I'm going."

"Hawkeye, no!"

"No! I'm done here! You want to self-destruct? Go do it in your own time!"

"Hawk, stop!" Trapper leapt across the room, grasping Hawkeye's hand with both of his own in some ridiculous parody of a romantic proposal. "It's okay! I'm not having a drink... I just..."

Hawkeye stilled for a moment, exasperated, his breath escaping in an impatient hiss. "You just what, Trapper?"

"Don't get mad. It's not what you think!" His fingers trembled a little as he squeezed Hawkeye's hand. "I just... I gotta do this! Let me do this one thing, an' if ya don't like it, you can walk away!"

Hawkeye stared at him, wide eyed, caught by surprise by this strangely passionate display. "If you kiss me," he said firmly, "I'll punch you in the mouth."

And it was only now that Trapper realised he was subconsciously drawing Hawkeye closer

"I ain't gonna kiss you," Trapper replied, more than a trace of regret slipping through. "I'm just askin' you to trust me. That's all. D'you trust me?"

"Right now? No!"

"Please? Just this one thing!"

Relaxing a little, Hawkeye pulled his hand free, his fingers slipping easily from Trapper's weakened grasp. "Show me what you're gonna show me. Then – then! – " he pointed an angry finger in Trapper's face " - we'll see about the trust part."

Author's note: This has been my first attempt at writing Original Characters, and so any feedback would be very much appreciated. I don't consider myself to be an expert in writing about social issues, but I have tried my best to do my research. Any guidance readers can offer with regards to racial or transgender issues, particularly in the historical context and in an American setting (I'm a Brit), would be greatly appreciated, so if anything stands out, then do please drop me a message or leave feedback. I'd love to hear your thoughts. These ladies will be featuring heavily over the coming sections and so I'm eager to hone them to perfection, as I've grown rather attached to them!