There was one thing Trapper had noticed about Hawkeye being at Battalion Aid: the wounded came in in better shape than usual. Men with wounds that might have normally died in transit got to them alive, and Trapper once found a guy with a note tucked under his arm detailing what Hawkeye had been able to do for his chest wound before packing him off. It must have killed him not to be able to operate in earnest when he was down there. The meatball surgery they had to do here was frustrating enough, but at Battalion Aid it was all about stabilizing and getting people out the door.

The wounded eventually slowed to a trickle that evening, and Trapper was having trouble remembering what sleep was. He stumbled back to the Swamp alone. Frank had Post-op duty since he'd managed to commandeer a couple of hours for a nap halfway through the surgery session, probably saving countless lives by not operating on them.

He collapsed onto his cot, too tired to even pour himself a drink. The post surgery belt wasn't the same without Hawkeye anyway.

His dreams were strange again, and more than once he was back in that hotel room in Tokyo, sometimes watching, sometimes participating, and once working frantically on Hawkeye, who was bloodied and full of mortar fragments.

"Trapper?"

"You'll be all right, Hawk. Don't worry, I've got you." But he wasn't all right. There was blood everywhere, and nothing Trapper did was stopping it. It poured over his hands. "Listen, Hawk. Listen to me. I'm sorry. I'm sorry for everything." But Hawkeye wasn't responding.

"Captain McIntyre, sir?"

Trapper jerked abruptly to consciousness, feeling no more rested than he had before going to sleep.

"What is it Radar?" he asked, sitting up so quickly that the young man had to take a step back to avoid Trapper's head cracking him in the chin. It was light out, sun streaming in through the screen. His eyes fell on the empty cot across from him. "Where's Hawkeye?"

Radar adjusted his glasses. "Oh, he's not back yet, sir. The roads between us are under heavy mortar fire. It wasn't safe for him to leave."

"Mortar fire? He's all right though, right?" Trapper asked. "You talked to him?"

"No, sir. The phones at the aid station are out," Radar said, a bit nervously. "But I'm sure he's fine." He hesitated. "Sir, I, uh. Sorry I had to wake you, but you're due in Post-op."

Trapper was starting to feel sick. It wasn't that he believed in anything stupid like premonitions. But they were at war. His dream had been a manifestation of a very real danger, and the idea of something happening to Hawkeye before he could make things right between them was weighing heavily on him. And that was ignoring the fact that he'd once again had dreams about...

Well.

He couldn't really think about that. One problem at a time.

"It's fine, Radar," Trapper said, reaching for a boot. "I'll be there in a sec."

"Yes, sir," Radar said, nodding and heading for the door. He stopped. "Trapper? Can I ask you a question?"

"Sure, Radar, I'd love some coffee," Trapper said, tugging on his other boot.

"Not that," Radar said.

"What is it?"

"I was just, uh. Well." Radar fiddled with the clipboard in his hand. "I was just wondering why you and Hawkeye were so mad at each other lately."

Trapper stood, stretching. "It's a long story, Radar." That's what made this even harder. He couldn't talk about it with anyone without putting Hawkeye at risk. All it would take was one wrong person to find out and Hawkeye'd be going stateside in disgrace.

"Yeah, well," Radar said, voice slightly high pitched. It was the way he sounded when he was mad but still mindful he was speaking to an officer. "With all due respect, sir, I think it stinks."

"So do I," Trapper admitted.

"I mean," Radar continued, as if he hadn't heard him. "You two guys are best friends, you know? Seeing you fighting is just, well, unnatural. It's bringing down the whole camp, sir. And I feel real bad for Captain Pierce. He's acting mad, but I can tell he's more sad than mad."

"I know, Radar," Trapper said with a sigh. "And I'll be honest, it's mostly my fault. Look, I'll talk to him when he gets back, all right?"

"Oh," Radar said. "Well good."

Now Trapper just had to figure out what it was he needed to say.

"Any word on Pierce?" Margaret asked as she and Frank joined Trapper and Henry in the mess tent to eat something the kitchen was trying to pass off as lunch.

"Nothing yet," Henry replied, setting down his coffee mug. Trapper could tell he was doing his best not to look too concerned. "There's still a lot of shelling in the area and the phones are down. I Corps said they haven't been able to get a replacement in, let alone get Pierce out."

"Maybe if we're lucky they'll just transfer him there," Frank said cheerfully, smacking a ketchup bottle and ignoring the icy glare Trapper shot him.

"Frank," Margaret said, surprising all of them with an admonishing tone. "That's a terrible thing to say."

"Oh, come on, Margaret, I was only joking," Frank said as he picked up his fork.

She gave him a look and he fell quiet, huffily eating his meal. It was only then that Trapper remembered that Margaret had gone to the front with Hawkeye once. When they had come back there seemed to be a camaraderie between them that certainly hadn't been there when they'd left. Even now, despite their differences and the fact that Margaret usually looked like she wanted to slap him, they both still seemed to have something of a mutual respect for one another. Trapper had thought maybe there had been some hanky panky while they were away, but Hawkeye had assured him there hadn't been, explaining that they were too cold and exhausted to do anything but try to sleep when the shelling wasn't too loud.

That's where Hawkeye was now. Stuck as bombs dropped around him, without even Margaret for company. The fact that Margaret, the only one among them who had seen an aid station first hand, was clearly worrying for him wasn't really making Trapper feel much better about it.

He lost his appetite suddenly, standing and picking up his tray.

"Where are you going?" Henry asked.

"For a walk," Trapper replied.

He wasn't sure where he was headed. When he made it outside he just started walking, hands shoved in his pockets. He'd come to the decision to head for Rosie's right when Father Mulcahy emerged from his tent and got a good look at him.

"Trapper?" he said, tone gentle as always. "Is everything all right, my son?"

Trapper hesitated, but he'd really never been one for sharing, even with a priest. "Sure Father, everything's fine."

Father Mulcahy seemed doubtful. "Would you like to come in? I was given a bottle of whiskey by a patient who was going home, and I certainly can't drink it all on my own."

Trapper almost turned him down, but the priest looked so earnest. He smiled slightly. "How can I say no to that face?" Trapper asked.

Father Mulcahy laughed and opened the door to his tent, gesturing Trapper inside. "I practiced puppy dog eyes in seminary school. Best in my class."

Trapper took a seat on Mulcahy's cot as the Father pulled out two tumblers and the whiskey. "How are you, Trapper?" he asked, attention on pouring. He handed a glass to Trapper and took a seat at his desk chair. "You seem troubled."

"I'm all right, Father. Really." They both took a sip of the whiskey at the same time. "At least, I was," Trapper said, wrinkling up his nose. "That's just terrible."

"Yes, well," Mulcahy said, coughing. "It's the thought that counts, I suppose." He set his glass down on the desk.

"It's almost as good as the paint thinner Hawk and I make," Trapper said.

"You two do have quite the way with distilling," Father Mulcahy agreed. "Do we know when he'll be back?"

Trapper braved another sip of whiskey. "Soon as the shelling stops, I guess."

"Oh my," the Father said. "I pray it'll be sooner rather than later."

"Yeah," Trapper replied absently, starting to get lost in thought.

"I'm certain he'll be fine, Trapper, though it's natural to worry."

"He went to get away from me." Trapper wasn't sure what made him say it. Father Mulcahy just had that way about him. He could disarm you so quickly that you were spilling your guts before you even knew what happened.

The Father leaned forward in his chair a bit, sure to give Trapper his full attention. "What makes you say that?"

"I don't think it's much of a secret we haven't been getting along, Father," Trapper said. "I said some shi- excuse me, uh. Some terrible things. To him."

Father Mulcahy was one of the few people he knew who could look sympathetic without making you feel like he was pitying you. Trapper had always liked that about him. "These are trying times, Trapper. Patience will be lost and mistakes will be made. But you and Hawkeye have an inspiring friendship. If you apologize I have no doubt he'll forgive you."

"I don't know, Father," Trapper said.

Mulcahy gave him an encouraging smile. "I haven't told either of you this, but your friendship with Hawkeye always makes me think of a passage from the book of Ecclesiastes. Let's see, how does it go exactly..." He looked up at the ceiling of his tent as he considered the words.

"'Two are better than one because they have a good return for their labor. For if either of them falls, the one will lift up his companion. But woe to the one who falls when there is not another to lift him up.'" He reached out and patted Trapper's shoulder. "I don't think either of you wants to lose your friendship. Remember that and have faith."

After Father Mulcahy's tent, Trapper decided that continuing on to Rosie's was a good idea. While his talk with the priest did alleviate some of his fears about his friend not forgiving him, it unfortunately gave him more time to devote to worrying about his other two Hawkeye related problems.

There was still no word from Battalion Aid. As far as anyone knew, Hawkeye remained stuck at the front. Hopefully in one piece.

Trapper had never been to the front. Selfishly, he was grateful for this. It did, however, leave him with a bit of a void when he tried to picture just what Hawkeye was dealing with. He was pretty sure he was somehow both imagining it far more horrible than reality and yet not even close to as horrible as it actually was.

He kept seeing the image of Hawkeye from his dream - blood everywhere, while he tried uselessly to fix him.

And then of course were the other images from his dreams. How he kept ending up back in that hotel room. How he kept finding himself playing the role of Major Broadshoulders in some kind of play in his mind.

His subconscious was really doing a number on him.

He left Rosie's around ten. It was dark as he crossed the road back into the camp and made his way to the Swamp. He could see the light was on, and almost diverted to the Officer's Club, not in the mood to deal with Frank, but he was tired of drinking alone. He was wondered if Hawkeye was too.

Pushing open the door to the Swamp, he pulled to an abrupt stop at the sight of Hawkeye in blood soaked fatigues, sitting in his favorite chair. He was holding a martini glass with one hand and resting his forehead in the palm of the other. His eyes were closed, but his expression was far too troubled for him to be asleep. Rarely had Trapper seen him look quite so vulnerable, his mask of humor and cynicism gone.

"Hawk!" Trapper said, crossing the distance between them and sitting on Hawkeye's cot, hands immediately going for his blood stained clothes. The image from his dream flashed through his mind. He had to find the injury.

Hawkeye started, spilling some of his martini and looking wildly at Trapper before seeming to remember where he was. And just like that, Trapper watched the mask slide back on. "Trying to undress me, Trap?" he said with a smirk. "Now who's the pervert?"

"Shut up," Trapper replied, trying to lift up his shirt and check his abdomen. "Where are you hurt?"

"Hey, knock it off, I'm easy, but I'm not that easy," Hawkeye said. It was a joke but there was definitely some residual anger there, words rattling sharply off his tongue as he batted at Trapper's hands.

Trapper was insistent though, still trying to assess how bad he was.

"Trapper, seriously, stop groping me." Hawkeye said, trying to twist away from him. "It's not mine!"

Trapper paused, blinking up at his face. "Who's is it?"

"A Private. I don't know his name." Hawkeye downed the rest of his drink. "Couldn't find his dog tags after he blew up in front of me." As Trapper's heart finally stopped beating in his ears, he was able to make out the slur in Hawkeye's words. He wondered how long he'd been back, drinking alone while Trapper had been at Rosie's doing the same.

"Come on," Trapper said, after gazing at him for a moment. "You need to get out of those clothes."

"And you wonder why I flirt with you," Hawkeye said, grinning drunkenly. "When you set me up with material like that."

"Knock it off, Hawk," Trapper snapped. It wasn't joking about the flirting that bothered him. It was how he was pretending everything was okay, when Trapper could sense Hawkeye was on the edge of losing it. He took hold of Hawkeye's jacket and started to pull it off his shoulder.

"Ow, ow, easy!" Hawkeye said, grimacing in pain.

"What the hell?" Trapper asked, as his finger poked through a bloody hole in the green material. "Hawkeye, you said the blood wasn't yours!"

"I said most of it wasn't mine," Hawkeye retorted.

"No, you did not," Trapper growled.

"I didn't?" Hawkeye said, head tilting thoughtfully. "Well I meant to."

"Damnit, Hawkeye, let me see." Trapper tugged at his jacket again, gentler this time.

"It's just a graze," Hawkeye said, but he didn't fight him on it, wincing a bit as he moved his arm to slide the jacket off. "I already looked at it. I'm a doctor, you know."

"I think I heard that somewhere," Trapper replied. Hawkeye's khaki t-shirt sleeve was covered in blood too, and for a moment Trapper began to worry that Hawkeye had underplayed the injury. But when he got a good look at it, he realized Hawkeye was correct. It was just a graze on the side of his shoulder that had bled a decent amount. "Come on, let's get you patched up."

"Will I make it, doc?" Hawkeye asked.

"We'll see. Might be touch and go." Trapper stood and took Hawkeye's martini glass from his hand, setting it by the still. Then, taking hold of his uninjured arm, he slowly pulled him to his feet. Hawkeye teetered, but Trapper put an arm around his waist to keep him steady. "Come on, I gotcha."

He grabbed Hawkeye's robe as an afterthought, carrying it over an arm as he maneuvered his friend through the camp. Hawkeye was surprisingly compliant and quiet considering how utterly drunk he was. If Trapper hadn't had his arm around him he would have gone face first into the dirt about half a dozen times. His buzz from Rosie's was all but gone after walking in and seeing Hawkeye covered in blood, so he was able to get them to the exam room without much incident. Luckily, whoever was on patrol must have been in a different area, so they didn't end up causing a camp-wide panic about the state of Hawkeye.

Hawkeye was singing under his breath as Trapper settled him on an exam table.

"What song's that?" Trapper asked, putting Hawkeye's robe next to him and going over to the cabinet to collect the supplies he needed.

"That, Trapper John, is It's Only a Paper Moon," Hawkeye informed him. "Made famous by the breathtaking Ella Fitzgerald." He started singing again, though a bit louder, so Trapper could make out some of the lyrics. "It's a Barnum and Bailey world, just as phony as it can be."

"Sounds kind of depressing." Trapper returned to the table, setting his supplies down and pulling on a pair of gloves.

Hawkeye lifted a finger, as if asking Trapper to wait, and continued singing. "But it wouldn't be make believe, if you believed in me." He had a nice voice when he wasn't singing obnoxiously. He was swaying side to side, but Trapper wasn't sure if that was from the music or the alcohol.

"Okay, sit still, Ella," Trapper said, picking up a pair of scissors. Hawkeye stopped singing and gripped the edge of the table, holding himself still. Trapper started at the sleeve and cut off Hawkeye's bloody shirt. He tried to focus on the wound and just the wound, as a shirtless Hawkeye was an uncomfortable reminder of his dreams. The lack of talking from his patient made him feel even more awkward.

"You were right," Trapper said, trying to break the silence. "Just a graze. Probably not even bad enough for a Purple Heart."

"I have enough costume jewelry anyway," Hawkeye said.

Trapper set to work cleaning the wound. "Might need stitches though. I'll see when I'm finished disinfecting it." Hawkeye just nodded. Trapper waited to see if he'd say anything more, but when silence fell between them he decided to keep him talking. "What happened?"

"Shelling stopped, so I came home," Hawkeye said, shrugging his good shoulder. "Caught some sniper fire on the way."

He seemed so nonchalant, but Trapper noticed the tenseness in his muscles and how tightly Hawkeye was gripping the table.

"And the blood?" Trapper prompted gently. Hawkeye was a champion of internalizing. He needed to get things out or they ate away at him.

Hawkeye was quiet for a long moment. "A kid at the aid station. Just barely eighteen. He was on a litter on the back of a jeep, and I was looking him over. We were chatting, you know? He was from New Hampshire. He'd been to Crabapple Cove." He sucked in a breath as Trapper added more disinfectant to his shoulder. Trapper was sure it stung like a bitch. "He just had a superficial leg wound; he'd have been fine if he'd made it here," Hawkeye continued. He was staring straight ahead, making eye contact with the wall. "Next thing I knew one of the medics was pulling me away and shells were falling. I like to think I'm a decent surgeon, but. No one can put that many pieces back together."

Trapper paused, hand hovering above his shoulder, wondering just how many pieces of Hawkeye would need to be put back together after the war.

"We've all got the ones who haunt us," Trapper said eventually. He wasn't the guy people came to when they needed comfort. He hadn't been back home, and he really wasn't here. Patients found comfort in his jokey bedside manner, and Hawkeye apparently found comfort in his disrespect and shenanigans. But when it came to really talking out feelings? Trapper would sooner avoid it.

"Right," Hawkeye said, closing his eyes and taking a breath.

"You need a few stitches," Trapper told him, picking up a syringe. "I'll give you a local."

"Cross stitch something nice on me," Hawkeye replied. "Home Sweet Home, maybe."

"I usually leave the crafts to you," Trapper said, giving him the shot and picking up the 4-0 silk.

"Mm." Hawkeye murmured. Exhaustion was starting to hit him, Trapper could tell. The natural adrenaline had worn off, and alcohol could have a lullaby affect. He would know, he'd used it as a sleep aid a time or two himself.

"Stay with me, Hawk," Trapper said. "Won't be much longer. Sing me another song."

"You sing me a song," Hawkeye replied, opening his eyes and looking over his shoulder, startling Trapper at the sudden closeness of his face. "It's the least you can do."

And there it was. With the immediate medical concerns, Trapper had almost been able to forget about the rest of the problems hanging between them.

"Turn around," Trapper said, nodding at him to face forward. Hawkeye complied. After another moment of silence, Trapper added, "How about the 'Sorry I'm an Asshole' blues?" Hawkeye snorted and Trapper had to pause his work so he didn't accidentally stab him with a needle. "Hold still, will you?"

"Don't make me laugh, then."

They fell quiet again as Trapper continued his stitching. He waited until he had tied off and cut the silk to speak again. "Look, it doesn't matter to me what, or uh, who you do. You're right. You're still you. My problems were with me, not you." He taped a bandage on top of the wound to keep it clean, then busied himself with cleaning up, not making eye contact.

"Uh huh," Hawkeye said, somewhat doubtfully.

Trapper could feel his eyes on him as he walked over to throw out the bloody cotton and t-shirt. He was avoiding eye contact as he removed his gloves and trashed them. He stopped at the supply cabinet, then returned to the table with a couple of pain pills and an antibiotic. "Here. Take these."

"You know what pisses me off the most?" Hawkeye said suddenly, taking the pills from him and dry swallowing them. "What a narcissistic, arrogant, jackass you are."

That caught Trapper by surprise and he realized Hawkeye was suddenly glaring at him. It was like he'd been sitting on this the whole time, and now that Trapper had opened the can of worms Hawkeye was going to dump it on his head.

"The hell is that supposed to mean?" Trapper asked.

"Admit it, Trapper. The main thing you've been worried about was whether or not I've secretly been wanting to play doctor with you all this time," Hawkeye snapped, picking up his robe.

All right, so. Yes, that was true. "Look, there's more to it than that-" Like his dreams. Those vivid, erotic, confusing dreams.

"What makes you think I'd be attracted to you even if you were interested?" Hawkeye demanded.

"Are you saying you aren't?" Trapper asked, crossing his arms over his chest and staring at him disbelievingly. "Because you gotta admit you flirt with me a lot."

"I flirt with everyone! It's like a tick. I can't help it," Hawkeye said, gingerly trying to shrug on his robe. "I flirt with Frank, Trapper. Frank."

"So - what," Trapper said, an odd twisting back in his stomach as he once again imagined Hawkeye and Major Broadshoulders. "I'm not your type or something?"

"No." Hawkeye was struggling to to pull on his robe with his bad arm, but between the injury and the drunkenness he was completely failing.

"Well." Trapper finally took pity on him and stepped up to the table, holding the sleeve out for him. "That's that then. Everything can go back to normal."

"Right," Hawkeye said, sliding off the table and standing. He swayed a bit, and Trapper's hands took hold of his hips to steady him. "Exactly."

They were standing too close together for normal. They were staring at each other too long for normal. Trapper's hands were still on Hawkeye's hips, which was becoming normal in his dreams, but not normal for real life.

No. All of this was abnormal. And at that moment, Trapper decided that abnormal seemed okay.

He closed the distance between them, and later he wouldn't even be able to claim Hawkeye initiated it, because his friend started to pull back in surprise and Trapper had to chase him. Their lips collided. Hawkeye tasted like gin and he desperately needed a shave; this wasn't the soft pliable kisses he was used to from the nurses or his wife. This was something more intense, built out of something far beyond a simple mutual attraction. It was like a fire had ignited in Trapper's gut, intensifying as Hawkeye's surprise gave way to acquiescence, and his hands gripped Trapper's upper arms, caught somewhere between pulling him closer and pushing him away.

He wasn't sure how long it really went. Probably a few seconds in all actuality. He was just contemplating deepening the kiss when Hawkeye's hands seemed to make a decision and pushed him back. Hawkeye now had him at arm's length, wincing a little as he pulled at his stitches and still a bit unsteady on his feet.

"Oh, no," Hawkeye said, blue eyed gaze locked on Trapper. "No way."

"What?" Trapper asked, mind a bit foggy and stomach doing weird somersaults. He was wondering if he could do that again. He should do that again.

"I'm not here for you to experiment with," Hawkeye said, fingers still digging into Trapper's arms.

"That's… what? Wait. What?" Was he babbling? He might be babbling.

"You saw something in Tokyo, you got curious, and who else would you try it with?" Hawkeye said.

"That's not-"

"What do you think will happen here?" Hawkeye asked. "At best, 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."

"Hawk-"

"No, Trapper," Hawkeye said. "I've played this game before. Sex isn't worth a friendship. It's not." He was shaking his head, and Trapper realized with sudden alarm that Hawkeye's eyes were wet. "I'm hanging on by a thread in this place, and that thread is you. You've got to know that."

Trapper swallowed, realizing just how awful the last few weeks really must have been for Hawkeye. "I…" He licked his lips. "You're right. I'm sorry. Forget it, all right? It never happened."

Hawkeye seemed to deflate, in some kind of combination of relief and exhaustion, and he finally let go of Trapper, leaning back against the exam table instead. "I'd really like to go home now."

"Yeah, of course, let's get you to the Swamp," Trapper said.

"Not the Swamp, Crabapple Cove. Just mail me there, Cash On Delivery. My dad's good for it."