- In Love And War -
Chapter Ten: Down With Love

"Hawk, is there…something wrong?" Trapper asked tentatively.

"No, nothing. Why would you think something was wrong?"

"Because…because you're washing the linens."

"Margaret said she could use the help. I like to help. There's nothing wrong with helping people out once in a while, is there?"

He sighed patiently. "You wanna just tell me now, or am I gonna have to force it out of you? 'Cause you know you're gonna tell me."

"If there was something to tell, I'd tell you, Trap. But there's nothing to tell, so I can't tell you, Trap."

"You're a lousy liar, Hawkeye."

"I happen to be louse-free, thank you."

"Hawk." Stern. Demanding. Knowing. Why did he know me so well, damnit?

I dropped a sopping-wet sheet into the tub of blessedly warm water, quite purposefully splashing Trapper. "Whoops," I said innocently.

He dripped quietly for a few moments while I fished the sheet back out and started to wring the water from it; then two fingers hooked themselves into my waistband and yanked me backwards, away from the tub. I yelped in surprise, then grunted as I was shoved back against the wall of the washroom. Reflexively, I brought my hands up; and as Trapper came in for the kill, he was momentarily halted by a very wet sheet pressed between our chests. Mildly surprised, Trapper blinked down at the sheet and the spreading pool of water on his jacket, then up at me. "Ya mind moving that?"

"Step away, John McIntyre, or so help me God, I will make you more wet than you've ever been in your entire life."

He smirked at me, then held his hands up in surrender, taking a few steps backwards and leaning his back end against the edge of the tub. "Okay—now tell me what's up."

"Besides my ire?" I threw the balled-up sheet at him; he caught it easily and dropped it back into the water.

"Yeah. Besides that."

I turned my back to him—I couldn't stand to look at that smug little grin anymore. "BJ knows."

"Knows? You mean…?"

"Yeah. I mean."

He sighed, a loud whooshing of air. "Well… He said something to you?"

"Yeah." Expectant silence, which I had no intent of filling.

"What'd he say?" Trap prompted.

"I don't know."

"You don't…whaddya mean, you don't know?"

"He said he knew, and he wouldn't turn us in, and he doesn't care who I fuck. It made next to absolutely no sense."

"So what'd you say?"

I didn't answer right away. My lips still tingled where they'd pressed against his (or at least I told myself they did), and if I closed my eyes, I could still feel his body, warm, pressed against mine… "I kissed him."

Shocked silence; then, "You…what?!" I didn't dignify him with an answer. "Hawk, are—are you nuts?"

"Quite probably. But don't they say that if you think you're nuts, you're not really nuts? It's the ones who don't think they're nuts that usually are nuts. That's probably why Klinger's never gotten out—he tries too hard to convince everyone he's nuts. If he—"

"Hawkeye." A hand on my shoulder, pulling me gently around to face him. "What'd he do?" Trap asked softly, soothingly—a parent comforting a distraught child.

"He didn't do anything. I left. We've been avoiding each other very well ever since."

"Hawk…" He ran a hand back through his hair. "I'm sorry?" An offer, a gesture of hope—not for me, but for himself.

"You are not."

"Yeah, I am—I'm sorry he hurt you." He ruffled my hair gently, smiling his parental smile. But I could see beyond that smile—he was happy. Happy that my "infatuation" with BJ seemed to be over. Happy that he'd have me all to himself again. "I can go rough him up a bit, if you want."

"No," I said firmly. "You stay out of it. I'm a big boy—I can handle it myself."

"Okay, if that's what you want."

He turned away, started towards the door; I said very softly, "I think I do love him." Which effectively stopped Trapper from leaving.

His shoulders slumped, and his face was sad when he turned to face me. "Hawk, don't do that to yourself. Please. There's no hope in it. Sure, he might give you a good lay or two, but you hear how he talks about his wife. The only thing you'll ever be to him is a convenient substitute."

"Is that what I am to you?" I demanded.

"Yeah," he said simply. "You knew that from the beginning."

His simple, open-faced honesty had always irked me just a little, and right now it pissed the hell out of me. He was calm, cool, collected—everything I wasn't right now. I could hardly string one coherent thought together, much less provide insight into my own life—and here he was, trying to explain me to me. The worst part of it was, I knew he was right. But I needed to be angry, needed to lash out, and Trapper was perfect for that—he'd always forgive me later. We were twisted like that. So I sneered, "Oh, well at least you're honest about it."

And of course, he got defensive: "Yeah, yeah I am—what else d'you want from me?"

"Nothing!" I shouted, throwing my arms into the air. I began pacing restlessly, back and forth, back and forth, a caged animal. "I don't want anything from you! I don't want anything from anyone! I just want people to leave me the hell alone!"

"Fine. That's what you want?" The door slammed, and the whole building shook. Surprised, I looked over—he was gone. He'd left. Trapper didn't leave. Trapper let me yell at him and sometimes yelled back, and then he grabbed me, kissed me, and asked if I was all better. Trapper didn't leave.

And yet, I was alone in the room.

I shoved the heels of my hands against my eyes and leaned back against the nearest wall, sliding down slowly until I sat on the damp floor. Wonderful. Just wonderful. In one day, I'd managed to alienate my two best friends—probably forever, the way my life was going.

And it wasn't even noon yet.

I needed a drink.

Rosie's Bar was mostly empty when I stalked inside—a few GIs at one table, and a single person at the bar. That single person was, of all people, Margaret Houlihan, looking like she felt as bad as I did. I sat down next to her and ordered a scotch, and asked her glumly, "What's got you down?"

She looked up at my sharply, her face guarded. Her eyes were red and puffy, and slightly bloodshot—looked like she'd been crying as much as she'd been drinking. "Nothing," she snapped.

I nodded and knocked back the scotch, which made me feel a little better—but it was going to take a lot more than that to make me forget, which was what I'd come to do. "Me too." After another shot, I turned to look at Margaret again, propping my head up on my fist. "Margaret, do you like me?" She looked affronted, so I quickly explained, "As a person, do you like me as a person? My, you know…personality."

A thoughtful look crossed her face, and she was silent for a little while. "Mostly…yes. You're a good man, with a good heart, just making the best of this terrible place."

"Thank you," I said, patting her arm and smiling faintly.

"But you're arrogant. Arrogant and self-centered—when it comes down to it, you only care about Benjamin Franklin Pierce." I pulled my hand back and used it to down another scotch, mumbling something unintelligible even to myself. Leave it to Margaret to destroy my brief sparkle of happy. "And your blatant disrespect is infuriating! Just once in a while, it'd be nice to hear a 'yes, ma'am,' or get a salute, or even to see you in uniform!"

"Okay, Margaret, thank you."

"And your sanctimonious pre—!"

"Margaret!"

Her mouth snapped shut, and her cheeks reddened slightly, but she shrugged and pointed out, "You asked." She then reached out to put her hand on my arm. "I do think you're a good man, Hawkeye. You're sensitive when you want to be—you just don't let people see that often enough. The way I see it, is you've built up so many defenses against this place and what goes on here, that no one can every really know you. We all get a glimpse every once in a while of the man you really are, and the man you could be…but only ever a glimpse."

I sighed, and put my hand over hers. It seemed everyone but me had some great insight into me. "I appreciate the honesty. You're not such a bad egg yourself, you know."

"Why do you ask?"

"I'm trying to see if people think I'd make a better president than Truman."

"See—there it is! Whenever things get too serious, you hide behind a joke!"

I spread my hands helplessly. "That's just the way I am! I hate tension, and I happen to be good at relieving it. Hey, let me buy you a drink…"

One drink led to another, and another led to more, and more led to intense drunkenness, which led to a new openness between the two of us. If we'd been sober, I might almost have called it friendship.

"Can you keep a shecret, Hawkeye?" she slurred at one point.

"Sure, I'm good at that. Just don't ask me to keep a friend." Down with another scotch, since I could still feel my bitterness. I wanted to not feel anything.

"You know Frank—Frank Burns?"

I paused, trying to decide if it was worth it to come up with a witty response. No, it'd just be lost on the queen of Souse Korea. I went with a simple, "Yeah, I've seen him around a few times."

"Well," she said, waving a finger in my face, "there's some—something you don' know about him an' me." She grabbed my collar, yanking my ear down to her mouth to stage whisper, "We're seeing each other." She leaned back, nodding solemnly.

I snickered into my scotch, and she joined me in a brief bout of pointless laughter. "Well, I suppose that'd drive me to drinking, too."

She gave a roar of laughter, slapping my arm none too gently and sloshing most of my scotch, which had been on its way to join the others, onto the bar. Then she serioused up—"sobered up" didn't quite seem appropriate—and slurred, "But tha's not it. We were she—seeing each other…until today…" Her lower lip started to quiver, and then a wailing sob flew out of her mouth like a startled bird. She threw herself against me and I put my arm around her shoulders, letting her sob on mine. When she finally pulled herself back together, she lifted her bourbon and proclaimed, "Men stink!"

And after today, I was more than willing to lift my own glass with a heartfelt, "Hear, hear!" and a shouted, "Down with love!" One of us ordered another round, and we drank to more proclamations of the same vein.

We somehow ended up at a corner table, alternately laughing and crying without any apparent reason for either, and talking about a number of things I would probably regret later. At one point, I began singing, "Somewhere Over the Rainbow," my comfort song, and Margaret willingly joined in. Over and over again we sang that song, sometimes mournful, other times laughing so hard we could only wheeze out every fourth word. Her voice eventually stopped, though; and at about the same time I realized I wason the floor, slouched against the wall, with a beer in each hand. I told myself I should stop singing and get up, and I promised myself that I would as soon as I finished the song. Unfortunately, the words jumbled together in my head and, ultimately, I ended up selecting a line at random in a never-ending version of the song. I'd been at it for a while when I finally passed out.

TBC