There was a parking lot just outside the city limits, and so they left the car and jumped on the subway, skipping the fare, of course. There was a time Hawkeye would have been gleeful in his rebellion, but on this occasion their lawlessness was a mere necessity rather than a thrill. He sat silent, arms folded, long legs stretched out across the aisle, not quite trusting of his estranged partner and this flight of fancy he had embarked upon. Trapper sat beside him, trying to let his thoughts and his eyes wander. The rational part of his brain told him it would be easier to just sum up his discovery to Hawkeye in words, but there was some foolish, excited part of him that wanted him to see it with his own eyes, without prior knowledge. He wanted Hawkeye to have that same delightful shock as he'd had. He wanted to see his face light up in realisation. He wanted to see him take joy in this, revel in the discovery. And, perhaps, part of him wanted Hawkeye to be stunned that Trapper had found it, that Trapper had walked into this place and found not another bottle to crawl into the bottom of, but a lifebelt to cling to, a community to meet, new people to...

'New people to...' what? Date? Screw?

The more he thought on it, the more it scared him. What if Hawkeye got jealous? Or saw it as an attempt to make him jealous? Or saw no difference between this and any other bar, something Trapper should stay away from?

Suddenly, his plan seemed like a foolish delusion of a man desperate to impress a lover he had already lost, or to inspire jealousy, either to manipulate or to hurt. The relentless march of 'what-ifs' darkened Trapper's mood, and he sought distraction in his surroundings. The lights flashed past the window in rhythmic bolts. Above the glass, Trapper noticed an ad for Jim Bean. He turned away and focussed on the window once more.

The night air was pleasantly cool as they emerged from the subway at Boylston. Hawkeye shivered in his thin summer shirt and shoved his hands into the pockets of his slacks. But Trapper? Trapper was too distracted to feel the cold. There was something in his insides that seemed to warm him, at times a glow of anticipation, at others, a tense nervousness. Each step took them closer to their destination. He already knew the route, already knew where to find the little sanctuary he had discovered, and, as he turned the corner onto Washington Street, he could already hear the Marv Johnson crooning from the jukebox inside the little redbrick building. There were lights shining from the grubby windows, and in those lights there swayed the bodies of human beings, swaying in pairs in the space within.

"It's this one," Trapper said, somewhat subdued now he was standing at the threshold of... whatever this moment would turn out to be. He gave a weak gesture towards the building, then crossed the street in front of Hawkeye, hands shoved unceremoniously in pockets. 'Don't blow this. Don't say anything stupid. Don't act like it's a date. And whatever you do, don't have a drink.'

The last one was academic, of course. Nobody would serve him liquor here. That was part of the charm.

They didn't even have to wait until they got inside. Near the sheltered doorway of the bar, a sailor was leaning up against the wall, making cosy conversation with a young man in a tight fitting polo shirt. Trapper skirted past them quietly, faintly aware of a strange, tingling sensation in his gut halfway between fear and excitement. He saw Hawkeye's head turn, watched as he observed them for a few seconds, and then held the door for him.

The music was suddenly louder, the lights brighter. A couple of dozen bodies milled around before them, joined at the hip, pressed against one another. Mostly guys. A few girls. A few somewhere in between, or off on some glorious, unique tangent of their own. The rules no longer applied: gender, sexuality, propriety, all the divisions had been blown smack out of the water and the categories, like the people, wrapped around one another and spun away into a glorious, beautiful chaos.

Trapper hovered by the door, Hawkeye at his side, staring with dazed delight, and a little trepidation, at the joyous display. He'd grasped the theory when he'd spoken to Audrey and Dylan, but the reality quite took his breath away.

A bony finger in his ribs brought him back to himself, and he turned to glance almost apologetically at Hawkeye.

Hawkeye didn't look angry – thank heaven for small mercies – but he didn't look at bowled over as Trapper had expected, either. A bemused smile played across his lips and, shaking his head a little, he shot Trapper a look. "This is a gay bar," he announced.

Trapper shrugged and smiled. "Looks like."

"You found a gay bar."

Another shrug. "Yeah."

"No." Hawkeye prodded him again. "You found a gay bar. You. You who won't even use the words without having a meltdown or punching something! You!"

Trapper didn't know what to say. He knew Hawkeye was right: his attitude over the past ten years had been a long, slow, downhill struggle, but somehow, standing here surrounded by all these people, all this happiness, it seemed so very foolish. He wasn't naïve enough to think this epiphany would be enough to cast away all his demons, but, for now at least, it was like he had let some light into his soul by opening the door to this place, and sent a few of them scurrying for a while. And so, he smiled. "I did," was all he could day.

"How?" Hawkeye grabbed his arm, gesturing manically, his head shaking like he was trying to look in all directions at once. "How? I mean... I mean... I mean... how did you...? How?"

"I don't know!"

"What do you mean you don't know? Do you have any idea how hard it is to get into places like this? To even find them? I mean, you have to know somebody! And the only somebody you know is me and I've never... Did you? Know somebody?!" Suddenly, Hawkeye froze, his eyes widened and he grasped Trapper's arm. "Oh God, who do you know?"

Oh, and there was that jealousy Trapper had been worried about. "Hawkeye, no. It ain't that."

"Oh, hey, no. Not my business. You gotta... uh... you gotta go what you... uh..." He threw his hands up and turned away.

"Hey! You ain't listenin' to me! I said there's nobody!" Hawkeye looked at him, seeming placated but a little sullen. It was difficult, over the music and the chatter, to sound reassuring, but Trapper tried. "I went into a store," he explained, "and the guy had an ad for a place. It was cheap. Real cheap. An' then he looked at it an' he said it was..." Oh, and there were his demons again. Crawling up the inside of his windpipe, strangling his words. He couldn't quite bring himself to repeat the phrase spoken by the storekeeper that morning, and so, he moved on. "He said the place had a reputation, y'know. An' then he tossed the ad in the trash. So, I made 'im hand it over. An' then I came here."

It was a succinct little summary of his morning's activities, for sure. He's missed the part where he nearly had a nervous breakdown in the street, where he'd been 'vetted' by one of the local working girls, and where he'd had to beg the maintenance woman for a viewing appointment, and the supervisor for a few days' grace to save for the deposit. But it covered the basics.

"And the apartment?"

"Upstairs." Trapper nodded upwards. "Fifth floor."

"Oh. Fifth floor. Is it nice?"

"Not really."

"Do you care?"

"Also no."

Hawkeye gave a snort of a laugh. "Well, colour me not shocked."

"It's pokey as hell," Trapper confessed, "an' it looks like somebody whitewashed over the rot. Kitchen's like somethin' outta a motel..."

"Well, that's okay. You never cook anyway."

"... livin' room ain't much bigger, and the bedroom's got some awful wallpaper, looks like somethin' my grandma embroidered for my kids' nursery. But... it's here, an' it's got a little spare room attached, in case you're... plannin' on stickin' around." With these words, he shoved his hands into his pockets and looked away, hoping it wasn't a dead giveaway for the fact that he sort of hoped he was.

He heard Hawkeye pause for a moment, take a deep breath, and then, nodding in understanding, he asked one more question: "You wanna live here? You? Ye of perpetual denial and determined closet-dwelling? This is where you see yourself?"

'Us,' Trapper wanted to protest, but he wasn't about to say that out loud. He knew only too well, in an ideal universe, the life he envisioned here would involve Hawkeye. Maybe that was an influence? Maybe too much of one? But even if that life wasn't to be, this wasn't something he wanted to bury anymore. It had taken him ten years to get to this point, and there was no way in hell he was walking away now! He was seeing this through. Besides, even if he was single, he was still walking around with a blue discharge on his file. He'd left his wife for another man, had his kids taken away by the family courts because of it. The past ten years may have been a long, downward spiral of denial and self-loathing, but at least he knew this was part of himself now. And, with or without Hawkeye, he could either deal with it or keep digging.

Yes. Trapper would never have admitted it so little as a month ago, he felt he belonged here. And so, in answer to Hawkeye's question, and without a word of a lie, he replied: "Yeah, I do."

Hawkeye regarded him with a look that revealed more than a little scepticism, and yet, once more, a reserved smile appeared on his face. It wasn't an enthusiastic smile, and Trapper could only guess at the dozen or so questions that must be circling his brain, but, for now, he didn't utter them. "Nice going," he said at last, clapping a hand to Trapper's back.

"The rent's under budget but it's got a little protection racket attached to it – twenty bucks a quarter to keep the cops away."

"Huh. And to think we used to settle for apples."

"I figure it's a worthwhile expense..."

"I sense a 'but'?"

"... but it puts us over our hundred-and-forty bucks for the down payment."

"Ah. I see our dilemma."

"They said they'll hold it until Friday... if ya don't mind frontin' me another seventeen bucks outta your next paycheck."

He saw Hawkeye deflate a little, and he half expected him to explode. "Figures."

This resigned, subdued Hawkeye was not what Trapper had wanted. "Hey, you don't have to..."

"No, no!" Hawkeye waved him off with a shake of his head. "I said I'd support you! We're in this together. Until... y'know, we're not." He shrugged and averted his gaze momentarily to stare at the wall like it held some mystical window to the future. "Besides, how else were you planning on raising the cash?"

Trapper shrugged. "I dunno. Pawn somethin'? Sell somethin'? Beg? Borrow? Steal?"

"Oh, don't give me that." Hawkeye gave him a nudge and rolled his eyes. "Now, who do I talk to about signing up as your sponsor for this new chapter in self-discovery you seem to be embarking upon?"

Trapper wanted to protest. Hawkeye acquiesced to his plea so easily, and his generosity almost seemed too much! Trapper had expected some resistance, some bitterness, but Hawkeye was already scanning the crowds with a purposeful look in his eye and a steely determination in his jaw, and Trapper wasn't about to argue further. He, too, glanced about and spotted two familiar figures: Dylan's red hair shone like a beacon as she flitted about behind the bar, sleeves rolled halfway up her pale, skinny arms, while Audrey flourished a cocktail shaker with almost superhuman prowess, all the while smiling and chattering away to her patrons, making it seem all the more effortless.

"See the bar girls?" Trapper pointed out his new acquaintances. "The one washin' the empties is Dylan – she's maintenance – and the one slingin' the cocktail shaker is Audrey – she's the super. I had a long chat with them when I stopped by. They're real nice ladies, if a little scary. And they're a couple."

"Of course!" Hawkeye commented with a smile, because the only thing that could make this place more queer was if it had a lesbian couple on the bar and running the building.

"C'mon, we'll go say hello."

"They look busy."

"They wanted to meet you!"

"Oh, they did? What did you tell them?"

Trapper smirked at Hawkeye's quip, and began to weave his way through the customers to the bar. Audrey set down the drink she was serving, and glanced up as Trapper approached. A wide grin spread across her features.

"Well, if it isn't the new boy. We didn't scare you off, I see."

Smiling warmly, Trapper shook his head. "Not a chance. I like ya too much."

"Charmer!" Audrey shot back, and batted her eyelashes. And now, she turned her attention to Hawkeye. "And this must be Doctor Pierce?"

"Call me Hawkeye," Hawkeye replied, extending his hand to her.

"Come again, sweetheart? Speak up."

"Hawkeye. Like 'Last of the Mohicans'," Hawkeye enunciated over the music.

Audrey shook his hand firmly. "A pleasure. Now, if you two lovely gentlemen could just step this way..." With a gracious air, she led the pair of them to the end of the bar, where a narrow doorway led through to the back rooms. Here, she paused, out of earshot, to exchange a few words with Dylan, and it was Dylan who stepped forward to show Hawkeye through.

"Just him," she stated firmly, holding up a hand to Trapper. And then, to Hawkeye: "Follow me."

Her manner was efficient rather than rude, but Hawkeye shot Trapper a look of mild alarm before following. Trapper swallowed the lump in his throat. He was being excluded for a reason, but he had little choice but to trust the outcome of whatever was to be discussed in his absence.

To his left, Audrey handed him a glass of orange juice.

"Don't sweat it, new boy," she assured him, patting his arm gently. "Dylan just likes to look out for people is all."

Trapper nodded and tried to take her words at face value, not read too much into the situation, not to listen to his paranoia. "I get that."

He waited patiently, the conversation halting as Audrey stepped away to serve a customer, cracking open two beers.

"He's a fine looking man," she commented off-handedly, nodding in the direction of the office. "Would have turned my head, too, if I weren't hitched."

Trapper's brow creased a little in confusion. "I thought you liked girls."

Audrey gave a non-committal shrug. "Guys, girls... the good Lord made a lotta beautiful people in this world. I can't say I'm lookin' to discriminate. You know what I mean?"

And Trapper smiled. "Yeah," he said softly, more to himself than to Audrey, who was busying herself behind the bar while making idle chitchat rather than seeking some deep and meaningful discussion on the nature of Eros. "I know what you mean."

The room at the back seemed to serve as kitchen, office and storage space all rolled into one. With a wrinkle of his nose, Hawkeye regarded the crates of beer and boxes of liquor bottles that were stacked up in the corners and on the counters. He couldn't help but wonder if Trapper was really thinking clearly in his theory that his recovery would be supported here. Or if he might even just be lying...

But Hawkeye shook the thought from his head. He wasn't in the game of playing second guessing with Trapper's sobriety. He had vowed to trust him.

Nonetheless, as he sat, he raised a point.

"Nice place you got here. I like what you've done with the booze. Now, just so you know, the guy I came here with..."

"He's a drunk. I know." Dylan didn't make eye contact as she seated herself at the table, palms resting on the surface, fingers drumming. "We get a lot of 'em around here."

Hawkeye blinked at her. "You do, huh?" He wasn't all that surprised, especially having seen Trapper's descent into self-destruction.

Dylan nodded sagely. "Enough to recognise who we need to cut off. Take a seat."

Hawkeye did so. In silence, Dylan retrieved a file at the end of the table, opened it, and laid it out on the surface of the table. There were a handful of forms inside, and, on one of them, Hawkeye recognised Trapper's handwriting.

"Audrey likes to take in strays. It's sorta her hobby. Me, I like to make sure nobody gets rabies. You get my drift?"

"You're asking me if Trapper's had his shots?"

"I'm asking if he's liable to hurt anybody."

"Anybody?"

"Number one, you. Number two, anybody else. Because if I hear a peep about him layin' a hand on any one o' my tenants, you included – you especially – he'll be outta that apartment and sleepin' under a bridge, an' I don't give a damn what happens to him."

Pause.

"I'm willing to forgive a lot, but guys who get drunk and beat on the people they claim to love? Not on my fuckin' watch."

Hawkeye stared at her, feeling suddenly very... exposed in a way that he couldn't cover with playful jokes or innuendo. "You're asking me if I'm a battered husband?"

"Or whatever words you wanna use," Dylan replied, stony faced.

Swallowing, Hawkeye groped for whatever words he might use for this, unsure which might cast some sort of bias on his story, one way or another. But try as he might, he just didn't know how to talk about that. There was so much he had yet to process, so much that had gotten in the way. The invasion of their apartment, Trapper's sudden vow to sober up... Hawkeye had yet to find the space in his own head to come to terms with the event that had triggered so much...

"It was one time..." The words escaped him before he could think on them, and already they sounded like an excuse. He sounded like a victim. "We had a fight. He was drunk. Everything..."

Trailing off, he looked at his hands as they laid on the table. His dexterous, surgeon's hands, scrubbed raw from washing glasses and mopping floors.

"He's said it won't happen again." Even as he uttered them, the words felt shallow.

The look on Dylan's face mirrored his own cynicism. "You really believe that?"

Hawkeye looked across the table at her – her earnest, concerned face; her world-weary eyes; her no-nonsense, tired-of-everybody's-bullshit demeanour.

Hawkeye sighed, leaning back in his chair. "In all honesty?" he began, brow arched in a cynical gesture. "I know too much about the world to really believe that. I know there's a near-inevitable chance it'll happen again, and I know I probably sound like a moron sitting here trying to vouch for the son of a bitch..." Running a hand over his face, Hawkeye looked across the table at her. "I do. I sound like a moron, don't I?"

Shrugging, Dylan shook her head at him. "I ain't said that."

"So what's all this about?"

Dylan sighed heavily, leaning forward on her chair, elbows on her knees. "Your boy's been real honest with us – we know he's got a drink problem an' we know he's turned on ya a coupl'a times. Now I'm not about to delve into the details there – that's your business, an' if he sorts himself out then great, good for him, but if not, I'm not gonna lose any sleep over some crumb who can't keep his hands to himself – but I do need to know that my people are safe. An' I need to know that you're a free agent, because if you're not, then I can find a way for this application form to be rejected, and you can just hightail it outta here an' go wherever you need to go. Or I can hook you up with a room some place all on your lonesome. Just give me the word."

"You're asking me if I want to ditch him?"

"I'm offering you a way out – if you want it." She paused, reaching out and taking Trapper's application form from the table. "Say the word, and I can toss this in the trash, get you a fresh one. But not without your say-so."

Hawkeye paused. Seeing his choices laid bare like this, in black and white, starkly written in Trapper's doctorly scrawl, he couldn't help but feel foolish. There was every chance this was a terrible idea, that he was giving far too much, had waited far too long.

Inhaling deeply, he sat back, eyes fixed on the form. "If this all gets shot to hell," he said, his voice low, like he was almost embarrassed, "you'll have my back, right? I mean this... this isn't a one-time offer, right?"

Dylan nodded, holding the form out. "Any time."

Licking his lips, Hawkeye reached out, taking the form from Dylan's hand. "Let's just... see how things go from here." He picked up a pen, preparing to add his own signature to the contract. "And if at any point I truly do lose my proverbial marbles, I'm giving you permission in advance to take me out back and rattle my head around on my neck a few times in the hopes of scrambling my brains back into place."

And Dylan gave him a thin smile. "Now, that I can do."

The noise and heat of the bar enveloped him like a blanket as Hawkeye stepped back through. Trapper was waiting for him, his back to the bar, his fingers gripping the edge of a table with white knuckles.

Hawkeye sidled up.

"You know, it's a good job you never tried to make a living as an impersonator, because that's a lousy impression of a guy who isn't shitting his pants."

Trapper looked up from his glass of juice, his brow furrowed and his jaw tight. "How did it go?"

Striding up to the table, Dylan slid a tenant's copy of the lease over to Trapper with a little more force than was entirely necessary. "Your boy here's a prince," she stated firmly, with a slight curl of her lip. "You don't deserve him."

Trapper stared at her, and at the lease, but offered no argument to the contrary.

"Balance of seventeen fifty, to be paid on Friday, when you move in. Congratulations." She glanced at Hawkeye, and then to Trapper. "Talk about touched by an angel. Holy shit..."

The look on her face and the shake of her head told Trapper all he needed to know. And then, as he watched, she snagged Hawkeye by the arm.

"C'mon, angel. I'm gonna buy you a drink."

Hawkeye immediately looked to Trapper. "Oh... but, I don't really think I should. Trapper's not supposed to–"

"An' 'e's not! Not on my watch. Come on."

She gave Hawkeye another tug, and Trapper waved him off. "I'll be fine. I'm watchin' people dance. Go on."

Without a further word, Hawkeye allowed himself to be led away, disappearing into the crowds, blue eyes fixed on Trapper even as he was ushered away.

The throngs closed in, and Trapper once again turned his back to the bar, and his attentions back to the swaying couples and gyrating singles. Wondered how long it would take for all this to seem normal to him, for the novelty to wear off. Part of him almost didn't want it to, and yet he knew that the sooner the exotic became the everyday, the sooner he himself would feel less like an oddity.

He wondered how many of the other patrons had had the same feeling once.

As Trapper hovered at the edge of the dance floor, looking like the shy kid at the prom, he was acutely aware of the man in the leather jacket sidling closer. Trapper tensed. He knew when someone was giving him the eye, but usually the only guy doing so was Hawkeye.

This, he realised with sudden clarity, might be something he would have to get used to.

Pushing the feelings of discomfort down, Trapper glanced over, and gave a polite smile.

The man now sharing his table smiled back. He was young – over ten years younger than Trapper – and dressed in a studded leather jacket and faded jeans, with a tight white shirt open to his navel.

"Hi," he said simply, with a smile that was practically the non-contact equivalent of French kissing.

"Hi," Trapper replied with a nod.

"You're not dancing," the man observed, with a playful sway of his hips. "You should be dancing."

"I'm not much of a dancer," Trapper apologised with a shrug, hoping it was enough of an excuse.

The man smirked and moved closer. "You should be dancing with me."

Something in between excitement and abject terror rushed through Trapper's system. "Actually I'm here with someone."

"Oh." The man nodded, putting a little distance between himself and Trapper. His eyes scanned the crowd, as if searching for Trapper's 'someone'. "Someone special?"

Trapper recognised the quirk of the eyebrow and the knowing smile that accompanied the question. He knew it well enough, as he'd used the same approach before, courting women for whom the line between adultery and fair game was determined by a diamond ring. By most people's standard's, Hawkeye was not 'someone special' – not in that sense – but... in every other?

"Yes. Yes, he is."

His would-be dancing partner, grinned, laughed, and clapped him on the back.

"Jerome!" Audrey's voice cut through both the chatter and the music as she approached the table, empty glasses clutched between her fingers. How she didn't break a nail was a wonder... "Would you get your paws off that boy! Where's that man of yours?"

Jerome unfurled himself from around Trapper's shoulders and shrugged. "Beats me. Should be here any second, but hell if I know." He paused, shot Trapper one last sultry look, and flounced off. "See you, sugar." Trapper stared after, stunned and petrified and perhaps a little aroused.

"Never you mind him," Audrey dumped the glasses and grasped Trapper by the arm. "Jerome's a sweetheart, and near as married as folks get around here, but he loves to flirt. Does it just to get a rise out of that beau of his, 'cept he's so level-headed it just washes right over. But... Jerome does love to try."

"I sorta noticed..."

"You wanna step out? Get some air? You look like you could use some."

Nodding, Trapper allowed himself to be led through the crowded bar, arm in arm with the glamorous bar maid. The crowds parted for them in a way Trapper had never seen in a drinking establishment, but upon glancing at the faces of the patrons, he realised: they weren't moving aside for them, but for Audrey. It was hard to miss the respect she commanded, her presence and poise. Everything about her exuded strength. Trapper could only hope it was contagious.