Author's note: This chapter is largely the work of my best friend, who goes by the handle 'Captaintransvestite' on Tumblr. Some original content by me.

04:34 – Thursday September 27th1951

The sun had yet to rise, but already the air was thick with heat, and the sounds of crickets. Reveille would sound soon, rousing the camp, and the compound would soon fill with weary, khaki-clad bodies, and the air would fill with noise. The moonlight that was seeping in through the canvas tent, lazily washing its occupants in a hazy gunmetal grey, would soon give way to the sun, and the day would officially begin.

Only two people were already awake, and had been so for some time. The repair job they'd done on the wall where the still had once stood was far from perfect, and for the past two hours, the moon had been carefully projecting itself through the cracks and into the eyes of its occupants with all the accuracy of a sniper.

"Trapper?" A voice whispered across the tent. "Are you awake?"

"Guess I am now," came the reply. "Damn bugs. Someone tell 'em to put a sock in it."

They lay there and listened to the frantic pre-dawn chorus of cheeps and chattering. Hawkeye rubbed his eyes and stretched. "What time is it?"

"How should I know?" Trapper thumped his pillow. A pause, and then: "It's still dark. Hours to go yet, I'm sure. Try an' get some sleep."

"Right. Let's just lie here and wait for our lives to collapse around our ears."

It wasn't like they could do anything else. Resigned to another morning of incarceration, insomnia and fitful, tense waiting for the sword of J-CORP to descend upon him, Hawkeye flopped back onto his cot. He scratched idly at the crescent shaped scab on his shin which hadn't quite healed. Christ, Frank had heavy boots…

"Do you suppose this really is it?" He felt like he'd been waiting for this day all week, and yet it still hadn't hit home.

Trapper launched a second assault on his pillow, either out of anger, or just an attempt to make anything army-issue vaguely comfortable. "I don't see how we're gettin' outta this one, Hawk."

Silence descended again, and Trapper tried to think about the day in stages. Shower. Breakfast. Class As. If he broke it down, tried to breathe evenly, it loomed less. Seemed like any other day. Jeep. Seoul. Courtroom. Discharge. Plane. Home. Louise...

His reverie was drowned out by the growing crescendo of crickets, although it soon became apparent that wasn't just bugs. The sound deepened to a mechanical rumbling, accompanied by dirt crunching underfoot and hard thuds slipping in the ground, and suddenly Klinger burst in through the tent door. He was wearing a helmet, and a dress that was far too violent a shade of orange for this time in the morning.

"Wounded, Sirs! Choppers incoming! Up and at 'em!"

Hawkeye and Trapper exchanged a look. Aside from that, neither one of them moved.

Klinger stared at them. "What – am I doing it wrong? There are helicopters landing as we speak! Ambulances!" He mimed driving a vehicle as if playing charades. "Wounded people – blood, shrapnel, viscera, all that stuff! You gotta get up!"

Still, neither doctor moved a muscle. "You gotta be kiddin' me," Trapper growled.

"Klinger, as much as you have my vote in the competition for 'Radar O'Reilly Impersonator of the Month', in case you have forgotten, Captains Pierce and McIntyre – that is, us – are confined to quarters under military orders."

"So? You always disobey orders!"

"Oh no! Not today!" Trapper snorted and buried his face in his pillow.

"Yeah, and you see where it's gotten us?! Look, we hate to have to miss the party, but the military don't want anything to do with us, and frankly, I've never been happier to oblige. Apart from which, Trapper and I are about to put on our Sunday best and attend a delightful brass function known as a court martial, so unfortunately we're going to have to decline your invitation to today's bloodbath."

"We'll bring you back a cocktail sausage." Trapper's voice was still muffled by his pillow.

The approaching thrum of helicopters was briefly interrupted by a crackle and hiss, and then by the world-weary voice of Henry Blake over the P.A.: "Would Pierce and McIntyre kindly haul themselves out of bed and report to O.R."

Klinger gave Hawkeye a look and pointed in the direction of the announcement. "See? I told you!"

Klinger ducked, and the space where his head had been was suddenly occupied by Hawkeye's pillow as it flew across the tent.

04:42

"What gives?" Hawkeye demanded, as he and Trapper marched into Henry's office. "It's death o'clock in the morning, we've had no sleep–"

"Tossin' an' turnin', worryin' about your future will do that to a guy."

"–And something else I'm forgetting, just a tiny little detail: he, thee, and me are supposed to be on the first Jeep to Seoul so the army can string us up by our ankles!" Hawkeye flourished a finger in the air, almost jabbing it in Henry's eye. "And you call us in to do a final round of meatball surgery!"

"They weren't prepared to stop the war for you." Henry gave them a thin, exhausted smile that had no business being up and about at this hour and should still be tucked up in bed. "Look, fellas: there was a big offensive last night. Some general decided he really wanted a particular hill for his trophy cabinet and sent half a dozen units after it. We've got wounded comin' outta our ears, and I'm not gonna leave Frank all on his own."

"Why not? Did he eat the chalk again?"

"Do his business in the sandpit?"

Henry sighed. "I'm not kidding around, boys. I need you. I've got Radar on the phone trying to postpone your court date. I'll take full responsibility if they kick off; you boys won't get in any more trouble."

"It isn't the military we're worried about!" Hawkeye continued to gesticulate dangerously close to Henry's face. "What's everyone else gonna say when Trap and I march through the doors all scrubbed up and ready to stick our grubby homosexual hands into America's finest? Nobody wants to be near us, let alone work with us! You had us confined to quarters for a reason Henry! Not because you're a stickler for military discipline, but because the last time we set foot outside the Swamp, if you remember, we nearly started a riot! Do you really want Klinger to have to start slinging shoes in your operating room?"

"I don't care if it starts raining Judy Garland's ruby slippers in there! I wouldn't be asking if I didn't need you!" Henry stood up so fast he almost knocked over Hawkeye, who was still talking with his limbs. "I don't like this anymore than you do, but since my best surgeons had to go and get themselves caught playing doctor–"

Trapper's fists curled slightly. "D'ya think I wanted this, Henry?"

"No, McIntyre, probably not! But since you couldn't stop thinking with your–"

"Figure A?" Hawkeye offered with a thin smile.

"–And start thinking with your head for five seconds, I'm gonna be two surgeons down while the military drags its heels to replace you!"

"So, you'll be short anyway!" Hawkeye matched Henry's anger in a second, and then challenged it to a second lap around the football field. "Why not start early? You stay here and babysit Frank. Trapper and I are old enough and ugly enough to take ourselves to be court martialled." He shot Trapper a smile. "What do you say, dear? Lovely day for it!"

Trapper turned puce. Henry shook his head. "I said no."

"Henry, I'm not saying this to be difficult! But we might do more harm than good if we go in there. The nurses are doing an excellent line in pretending we don't exist, and as for Frank, I think he'd rather defect to the North Koreans than be in the same room as us! The entire camp has treated us like shit off their combat boots for a week! I don't see that changing – especially not when they're just gearing up to give us a great big send-off."

Henry fixed him with a glare. "Well, they'll have to wait! I've got a kid being flown in from battalion aid with a hole in his chest the size of the Gulf of Mexico, and without the attention of a damned fine thoracic surgeon, he can kiss going home goodbye. If you wanna curl up in your tent and feel sorry for yourselves, go ahead, but the rest of us are gonna be in O.R. trying to salvage what's left of these boys' intestines. Feel free to pick up your medical licences and join in at any time!"

Trapper watched as Henry stormed out of the office. Hawkeye stood mutely beside the desk, silent and defeated. "C'mon Hawk. One last dance."

"I don't see why we're still at the party when everyone's made it pretty clear we're not welcome." Hawkeye's reply was sorrowful and begrudging, but he followed him out regardless. Doctors first and foremost, whatever else anybody called them.

05:01

And call them names they did. Frank was the first in line. "How come you're letting a couple of degenerates operate on these brave American boys?" His lips – or what passed for them – curled with revulsion.

"Because," Henry replied with exasperated patience, as though talking to a child, "if Pierce and McIntyre go to the court martial, I have to go with them, and then you'd be operating all on your lonesome. And we wouldn't want that, would we?"

They continued to argue as Trapper changed into his scrubs, grateful for the distraction; he didn't need anybody making quips about keeping backs to the wall. Hawkeye, who had already donned his surgical whites, inspected his reflection in a pair of haemostatic forceps.

"Darling, does this shade of bleached white make me look pasty?"

"Knock it off, Hawk," Trapper muttered under his breath, face hot with embarrassment. Hawkeye stomped off to the scrub sink and aggressively slammed the tap on.

"If this is how you're gonna be–" he started, but he was swiftly interrupted.

"–And if I find any of that peroxide on your head instead of on the instruments, you'll be on report!" Major Houlihan's voice burst into the room, followed closely by Major Houlihan and a gaggle of nurses.

"Nakahara, check the blood stocks, get donations for anything we're low on. Mitchell, make sure the autoclave is operational and start distributing instruments. Carter and Feinberg, you're – oh for god's sake, somebody go and wake them! Baker, help the doctors scrub, and then..."

Nurse Baker looked at Trapper. Hawkeye was used by now to the nurses looking at them with disgust, but this was... something else entirely. This was pure horror.

And with a sinking heart, Hawkeye remembered why.

That 'double date' in the supply room. Suddenly, Hawkeye's mind raced back to a vivid memory of Baker's legs wrapped around Trapper's naked torso. She'd known that he was there in the room with them, but not that they were… together. And, judging by the look on Baker's face, that was an omission that she was not about to overlook.

Finally, she spoke. "Oh no. Not him."

"Baker–" started Major Houlihan.

"I'm not working with McIntyre, Margaret, it's unsanitary! God knows what him and Pierce are spreading around, I won't–"

"One more word from you and you'll be on report as well!" The room went silent as everyone turned to stare. "You are a nurse in the US army and you will do your duty! And I am a Major and you will address me as such! Have I made myself clear?"

"Perfectly, Major."

She stormed over to the sinks, taking a detour past the autoclave and muttering under her breath to Nurse Mitchell.

Trapper busied himself scrubbing, while Hawkeye tried to ignore the furious words he heard being hissed behind his back. 'Disgusting' was one of them. He glanced over his shoulder in reflex – right into the eyes of Nurse Mitchell.

Less than three weeks ago, Hawkeye and Mitchell had enjoyed an evening to themselves in the supply tent, and Trapper had pretended not to notice when he staggered back to the Swamp long after the sun had come up. If Baker had been Trapper's cover, then Mitchell had been Hawkeye's. Now, she fixed Hawkeye with a furious look, and he shifted uncomfortably.

Major Houlihan looked around at the room of silent nurses and awkward doctors, and threw her hands up in exasperation. "Does anyone in here intend to operate, or are you just going to stand there?"

Trapper was first to speak. "Thanks, Margaret," he said, slightly stunned at her outburst.

She glared at him. "I didn't say it for you."

08:52

The stream of casualties was constant, but Frank had carefully honed his ability to insult and botch operations at the same time, and he wasn't about to let anything stop him.

"Never mind McIntyre, maybe you'll be able to get a nice job in the State Department. As a receptionist."

Trapper tried not to twitch, and largely succeeded – which was fortunate for the intestine he was stitching.

Hawkeye ground his teeth behind his mask and waited for Trapper's scathing reply. None was forthcoming. "Looks like Frank's aiming to become a vocational guidance counsellor," Hawkeye announced a little too loudly.

"Is that supposed to be funny?" Frank's eyes narrowed.

"Not at all – I think it's a great idea." Hawkeye flung a piece of shrapnel into a bucket with a loud clang. "Maybe you'll ruin less lives."

Frank almost ballooned with rage. "Colonel, did you hear that!"

"Look, fellas..."

Silence fell, although it would be brief. Hawkeye risked a glance at Trapper, who was working on Frank's table by the door rather than his usual one next to Hawkeye. Frank had demanded it, and he'd have laughed if it wasn't so excruciating; Ferret Face vocally insisting somebody had to stand between "the degenerates", lest they try to... jump one another during surgery, presumably. Henry had volunteered Frank for the task, seeing as how he'd been the one to insist. That had been entertaining.

Trapper was focussed entirely on his patient, ignoring everything around him, including Hawkeye.

Then Frank looked up, just at the wrong moment, catching Hawkeye's eye. He bristled. "Making eyes at your boyfriend, Pierce?"

The room went deathly quiet, just for a moment.

At last, out of necessity more than choice, Trapper broke the silence: "4-0 silk." His voice was quiet, and trembling slightly, and Hawkeye's heart sank.

A clatter somewhere near his right foot startled him back to reality. His assisting nurse – Carter, Margaret had called her – had dropped a retractor with shaking hands. Her look of mortification was visible even under her mask, but everyone bustled on, almost like normal.

Hawkeye sighed as the nurse blushed and rummaged around the instrument tray for a replacement.

"I'm sorry."

"In your own time." Hawkeye held out his hand. As he waited, his eyes wandered back to Trapper's table, irresistibly drawn to him, out of concern more than anything. Nurse Feinberg met his gaze, staring in his direction, unmoving. Hawkeye shuddered, but stared right back.

12:21

Sometime around his fifth patient - or Frank's fiftieth insult, it was hard to tell – Trapper stepped into Radar's room, where the company clerk hummed away obliviously into the telephone.

"Radar," Trapper said quietly, to which Radar almost jumped out of his chair. "Henry wants to know if you've got an update on the postponement."

'Henry could have come out here and asked himself,' Trapper thought irritably – he too had been between bowel resections when the commander had nonchalantly made the request, waving away Trapper's protestations. Henry was not a subtle man, and he probably hoped that Trapper coming out here would make him and Radar hash out their differences, like squabbling children, as though this were an episode of I Love Lucy and it would all sort itself out at the end. 'Bit late for that now,' Trapper thought.

"Radar?" he asked again. "Have you got through to anyone?"

"No sir, nothing yet," Radar mumbled. He inspected the floorboards, not with any particular interest or casual disdain, but Trapper could only presume it was because lifting his head might bring about the end of the world. Trapper left the room, and with it, all hope of ever seeing Radar look him in the eye through those dirty glasses of his ever again.

14:36

"You'd better keep an eye on those perverts, Nurse Feinberg; make sure they're not doing a sneaky colon operation."

Feinberg's head whipped up. "Sir?"

"Major! There are ladies present! I'm one of them!"

"Sorry, Margaret – I mean Major..."

"Metzenbaum scissors!" Trapper said for the third time. He nudged Feinberg with his elbow. "Come on honey. I got places to be."

"Yes, like a stockade!"

"Do you get paid per quip, Frank?" Hawkeye snapped irritably, inspecting his patient's intestines for errant bullet holes. "You sure as hell aren't getting paid per life saved."

"Colonel! The Major is being abused!"

"Pierce…"

"Maybe he likes it? You ought'a know!"

Henry dropped a clamp. "Pierce, put a damn lid on it will ya?"

Hawkeye carefully removed the clamp from his patient and, satisfied there was no bleeding, angrily threw it down on the floor. "Fine, Henry. Whatever." He nudged Nurse Carter, who was still assisting him – when she wasn't fumbling with instruments, anyway. "Do you think you could give me the 3-0 silk, or is that too much to ask?"

"Sorry, Doctor," she murmured. She still wouldn't look at him, Hawkeye noted.

The hair on the back of his neck prickled, and he looked up, sensing he was being watched. Once again, he found himself looking directly into the eyes of Nurse Feinberg.

He snorted into his mask. Between Frank spending more time insulting than operating, one nurse who wouldn't look at him, and another who kept glaring at him, he couldn't help but think he'd been right all along: they were doing more harm than good here. 'See, Henry, I'm nothing but a wrench in your well-oiled surgical machine, just like I said I was. Can I go home now?'

Instinctively, he glanced up at Trapper once more. Feinberg was still watching. And, for the first time, Hawkeye looked away in shame, scared of what someone might say if they saw him again.

16:11

Frank had finally fallen silent. His jibes had been difficult to bear, but now tension screamed into the silences. The air was thick with heat and hostility, and Hawkeye was almost longing for an insult or five just to break it.

"Okay, I think that's it," Trapper was muttering from his table. "Grab me that X-ray again – I wanna be sure."

"Yes, Doctor." Feinberg stepped away from the table.

"Get it and be quick, honey, we've only got the table 'til eight."

"Don't call me honey!" Feinberg snapped, stalking out of the room to retrieve her errant X-ray. She brushed passed Hawkeye's table, and he could swear he heard a whisper from her as he inspected the stitches across his patient's torso. Was everything he did a cause for scrutiny? Was even casting his eye across another man's chest enough to arouse suspicion?

"Come on girls. You have a job to do," Margaret said warningly.

A voice spoke up from Hawkeye's shoulder. "Major, I don't feel so great..."

"Then get out from under my feet," snapped Margaret. "Kellye, take over."

Hawkeye didn't blame her. It was warm, far too warm. "I'm finished here, anyway. Someone escort this man to post-op. I need some air."

He ripped off his gloves and marched through the O.R. Pretended people weren't staring at him. Held his head high.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Trapper looking away, and sighed. 'He doesn't get it,' he thought. Hawkeye could no more not fill a room with his entire presence than he could willingly stop breathing. If people were going to look, show them how you want to be seen.

He passed through x-ray, pushing the door open with a refreshing swish, and, hearing voices on the other side, he leaned around the curtain.

He registered their words fractionally too late.

"… but Annie, that could be us in there!"

"Would you stop crying – someone's gonna ask…"

The door behind him banged closed, and the two women whipped round. Hawkeye was far too familiar with the way a room felt when two people have just jumped away from one another, but he wasn't about to say a word. He ignored the streaks of tears down Carter's face, and the way Feinberg's hand was twisted into her companion's sleeve. For a moment, he struggled to remember what he was going to say.

"Annie? Uh... Nurse Feinberg? Trapper still wants his X-ray."

Feinberg didn't reply. She snatched the X-ray up from the screen and walked back into O.R., and Carter followed soon after.

'She wasn't looking at me. She was looking at Nurse Carter. That whisper…'

The door banged closed again, and Hawkeye was left alone with his thoughts.

19:03

Trapper staggered out of O.R and into the corridor. Pre-op was thinning, but there were still bodies on stretchers lining both walls. The air was sticky, the evening sun was unseasonably warm, and the floor was covered with blood. Just another day in Korea. He hadn't taken a proper break all day. The one time he could have grabbed one, Hawkeye had beat him to the punch, sailing through the room utterly unconcerned as always, and Trapper had been too scared to follow.

Out in the compound, he flopped onto the nearest bench and sat down heavily, closing his eyes. "Jesus Christ," he muttered.

"At least you're thinking of Him during this difficult time," came the voice next to him.

"Shit," Trapper groaned. "Sorry, Father."

"That's quite alright," Father Mulcahy replied, although there was a tautness to his voice that suggested it wasn't quite, actually, thank you.

An awkward silence followed. Trapper tried to fill it. "How many more wounded we got out there?"

"About a dozen or so. Mostly stitches and plastering, thank God…"

"Oh. That's good. We'll only be another eight hours then," Trapper replied, only partly joking, and rubbed the stubble coming in on his face. "What's the time?"

"Around seven." Mulcahy offered the information without even glancing at his watch. Accuracy, he figured, was not necessary here. He could tell when there's another question under the first one. "If it wasn't for these poor boys," he said tentatively, "you would probably be on a plane by now."

More silence. This is embarrassing now, Trapper thought; he'd been hoping to make it out of here without having to see the look in Mulcahy's face. 'You should know better, John.' He should. He knew only too well. There's a letter 'C' stamped into his dog-tags – Catholic – and now, there's another brand, too, burnt into his skin; a punishment, hell-fire snaking across his flesh. Queer.

"I'm sorry, Father," he mumbled. "I must be quite a disappointment to ya."

Mulcahy didn't respond immediately. The silence stretched out and out, long enough that Trapper wondered if he'd better leave. But eventually, he replied. "We'll be sorry to lose you. You're both excellent surgeons. For the sake of the wounded, I'll be sad to see you go. But… I don't think my disappointment is really what's at stake here. If you need to talk–"

"What is there to talk about?" Trapper worried at his lower lip, swaying slightly, his hands clasped in front of him. "It's finished. All over. Finito. Eight years of marriage, ten in medicine–"

"It's never, ever too late." Mulcahy very rarely interrupted.

Trapper looked at him curiously. "Is it too late to confess?"

The Father smiled. If he was shocked in any way, he did a good job of not showing it. "Not at all, my son. Do you want to go to my tent, or..."

Trapper shook his head. "I don't wanna leave the wounded."

Mulcahy nodded. They turned away from the bustling compound, and the Father lowered his head and closed his eyes, a poor substitution for a confessional curtain. Mulcahy made the sign of the cross, and Trapper mirrored his actions a little awkwardly, and then began: "Forgive... Forgive me Father, for I – for I have sinned. It's been…" How many years since his last confession? He faltered, and then burst out in nervous laughter. "I can't… I can't remember."

"It's alright. Continue."

He took a breath, and wavered. Shut his eyes tight and now, in a rush: "Forgive me Father for I have sinned and this time I sinned so great I don't think I'll ever get past it –"

Mulcahy gently lifted a hand to calm him. The gesture was small, economical; it was what made him such a good poker player, the ability to control his meaning with a movement. He waited for Trapper to wipe his eyes before speaking. "No sinner is beyond redemption, John. The Lord is forgiving, after all. If you pray for His guidance–"

Laughing bitterly, Trapper buried his face in his hands, all semblance of formality breaking down. "Prayin' ain't gonna save me from a court martial, Father. Prayin' ain't gonna stop 'em from takin' my kids away from me, or my wife from tossin' me out on my ass." His voice was trembling. He blurted the words out with little thought or ceremony. He had scarcely even dared imagine Louise and the girls until now. The shame had been too great.

Pausing, Mulcahy gathered his thoughts for a moment. "No," he replied. "No, it won't."

"Tell me what I gotta do, Father. How many 'Hail Mary's to get this thing off my shoulders? How many rosaries I gotta say? Come on!" Trapper was ranting, tears stinging his eyes as his hands balled into fists.

"My son!" Mulcahy's exclamation made Trapper jump, but not half as much as the halting hand on his arm did. "I think… what you're asking for an absolution, which is something I can't grant. The path to redemption isn't intended to be easy. If it was, everybody would be doing it."

Trapper sniffed and wiped his face again. "What are you saying, Father? That I deserve this? This is my… my punishment? From God as well as from the Army?"

"Not at all, my son. Far from it." Mulcahy sounded almost… annoyed, stiffening slightly and blinking as he squinted out into the dusty evening. "The rewards and punishments of the Lord are reserved only for the next world, and I do believe it's the judgement of mankind that seems to be bothering you the most."

"How could it not?!" Trapper wrung his hands, rocking to and fro, anxious and agitated. "You know what the regulations are – what they're gonna do to us, me an' Hawkeye. You've seen the way people look at us, judgin' us, an' the things they're sayin'. An' I know you're prob'ly thinkin' it too, 'cause I know as well as you do what it says in that book of yours, only you're too polite to say it."

"Would you like me to?"

Trapper thought on that for a moment. "I think it might feel better comin' from you than the brass over in Seoul."

Mulcahy nodded, and Trapper closed his eyes. "Yes, John. Sodomy is indeed a sin."

Trapper released a breath he didn't know he was holding. Somehow, Mulcahy's honesty felt wonderfully cleansing in a way that Hawkeye emphatically tossing the F-word at Radar just didn't. Nobody else had actually said it all week. They had tiptoed around it with embarrassed innuendo or barbed comments. Even Henry had been cagey about the finer details of his report, and, so far, Hawkeye's choice words to Frank had been the closest anyone had gotten to an exact definition of Article 125.

When Trapper opened his eyes, the Father was still talking: "Adultery is a sin, also, and – if you'll forgive me for saying so – your reputation in that department somewhat precedes you. And yet, you never sought my advice until now… but then, I suppose–"

"Nobody ever tried to kick me outta the army for–"

"–Coveting nurses," Mulcahy intercepted quickly with a polite cough and a stern look. "No, indeed." He paused for a moment, gathering his thoughts. "I won't lie to you, John: There is nothing either one of us can say or do that will change the course of the upcoming legal proceedings. The court martial will make its own decision, on the basis that this is one of the few Biblical matters that the army has decided, in its 'infinite wisdom', to get involved with." There was a slight edge to Mulcahy's tone. "I don't doubt that the life that awaits you in the States will be hard."

Trapper gave a bitter chuckle. "You can say that again. How many big city doctors do you see with a Dishonourable Discharge hangin' on the wall in their office?"

"Hmm." Mulcahy frowned. "Indeed. But perhaps, you could use this time to focus on the… less material things that you value in your life. While you may not be able to heal the sick, you can heal your marriage."

Sighing, Trapper stared at the dirt on his boots. His money, his marriage and his children were all tied up in a messy knot together. Being a good husband and being a doctor came hand-in-hand: provide for your wife, provide for your kids. It was all part of the lifestyle he'd failed to uphold – a lifestyle he was rapidly beginning to think he wasn't cut out for. Could he really go back to that after everything that had happened? "I don't know, Father…"

"You may not be a surgeon for much longer, but you're a husband and a father above all else. Focus on your wife and your children, earn their forgiveness, honour your marriage vows, and then, I think, perhaps you might be on the way to find the redemption you seek."

Trapper gave a nod. "That's a nice little picture you paint there, Father. Just one tiny problem: this ain't just about me." He glanced back at the hospital. Through the window, he could see various figures in white scrubs stooped over their patients in the brightly-lit room beyond. Funny – he could spot Hawkeye in a crowded room full of identically dressed people, in a surgical mask. Even now, he smiled. "I don't want anythin' bad happenin' to Hawkeye, either," he choked out. "It tears me up inside to think of anybody hurtin' him. But they will, won't they?"

Mulcahy followed his gaze to the window. "You care about him deeply, don't you?"

"Is that a sin, too?" Trapper's tone was confrontational, but Mulcahy wasn't in the least bit accusing, and he wished in retrospect he could take back his sharpness.

"Not at all, my son. Caring for another human soul is far from a sin. However…" Mulcahy considered his next words carefully. "If those feelings you have for Hawkeye are what led you to break your marital vows, then perhaps… it might be advisable to put some distance between you. Sins of the flesh are one matter entirely, but affairs of the heart are, so I am led to believe, infinitely more painful, and… if you carry on down this path…" He spoke slowly, carefully. "… It's not just Hawkeye who is likely to be hurt. Nobody ever said moving on was easy, but I meant it when I said it's never too late. Believe that. And believe in the Lord."

Letting out a long, steady breath, Trapper closed his eyes and tried to compose himself. "Tell me Father, do you pull your punches in the boxing ring at all?" He smiled weakly.

Mulcahy chuckled, and they sat together for a few minutes, Mulcahy fingering his rosary beads, Trapper toying with his dog tags, each of them deep in thought, and silent.

22:14

Trapper lay staring at the canvas ceiling of the Swamp and rubbed restlessly at his aching eyeballs. This was just a joke. 'Go get some sleep.' they'd said. 'Go grab a couple of hours while it's quiet.' That was an hour and forty-five minutes ago, and he had yet to grab anything resembling sleep.

He closed his eyes – it was more of a blink than sleep – and within a minute he heard the door go. A moment later, the side of his cot sank, and a pair of hands laid themselves gently over his eyelids.

"Guess who?"

"Betty Page."

"Wrong." Hawkeye removed his hands, and Trapper opened his eyes. "It's the other sexy brunette in your life."

'Louise is a brunette…' Trapper frowned. "How can you make jokes like that at a time like this?"

"The same way I always make jokes like that at times like this – a grim, stubborn refusal to take life seriously." He patted Trapper on the leg. "Anyway, that was your early midnight wakeup call. They need you in surgery."

Rolling his eyes, Trapper sat up. He was almost grateful – operating was marginally less mentally exhausting than trying to sleep. "You gettin' some sack time now?" He tried not to sound too hopeful – the tension in the O.R. was bearable when Hawkeye wasn't in it.

"Negative. Battalion Aid just sent me another chest case. I figure the Army wanted to give me a going-away gift and it seemed rude to refuse. Frank's just gone down for his nap, and you…" He patted Trapper's shoulder, suddenly morose. "… have a double amputation all of your very own."

Trapper winced and ran a hand over his face. "Jesus…"

"I know." Hawkeye leaned closer to give Trapper a comforting hug, but Trapper pulled away and busied himself getting his boots back on.

"I thought we'd thinned out."

"Yeah, well, we fattened up again."

"Clearly some idiot keeps feedin' the war."

"I hear it's an 'all-you-can-eat'." Hawkeye watched in silence as Trapper laced his boots. "Hey," he said at last as they prepared to leave. "It'll all be over soon."

'Were ever truer words spoken?' Trapper thought lyrically to himself. "Yeah…" he muttered in response.

Hawkeye tried to take his hand, and, again, Trapper pulled away. His brow furrowing, Hawkeye retreated a little. "Are you okay?"

Staring at the door and attempting, yet again, to dredge up the courage to walk through it, Trapper shook his head. "No. No I'm really not."

02:09 - September 28th 1951

He could barely keep his eyes open. The chest case had been messy, the work painstaking, but at least the concentration kept him awake. Now, the worst was over, and the final trickle of broken bones, flesh wounds, burns and other minor wounds were lining up outside their door.

"Okay, fellas!" Henry announced with what little zest he had left in him. "One last push. Klinger, go wake up Burns. Margaret… Where the hell is Margaret? Uh… Kellye, go to the nurses' tent and get B shift back on. Everybody else, take five. And somebody get me something for my corns!"

Trapper slumped across his operating table, resting his head on his arms. Hawkeye tried his hardest not to smile. Or look. Or even register his existence. "Anything I can do, Henry?"

"If you're feeling athletic, you can head over to supply and pick up a couple'a gas canisters. You sure you don't wanna take five?"

Hawkeye yawned. "I'm fine. I slept last Wednesday. Besides, if I sit down now, I won't wanna get up again." He strolled out. Trapper flinched as he walked past. Hawkeye pretended not to care.

Crossing the compound to the supply shed was… oddly nostalgic. How many times over these past months had he and Trapper crept into the dark confines of the tiny building? How many times had Hawkeye reassured him as they barricaded the door, 'It's okay, Trap. Nobody's gonna walk in. It'll be fine!' How he wanted to eat those words now!

His mind flooding with bittersweet memories, he pushed the door open and snapped the light on.

There was a shriek, and a thud, and Frank and Margaret leapt apart, staring at him. Hawkeye stared back. At any other time, he might have found this hilarious. Instead, he ignored them and turned to lift the first of the heavy gas canisters from the shelf, leaving the Majors to adjust their uniforms and neaten their hair in silence.

"Awfully quiet, aren't you, Pierce?" Frank snapped as he straightened his cap. "What's the matter? Lost your sense of humour? You normally find this sort of thing terribly amusing. Why so quiet, huh?"

Hawkeye heaved a canister onto the floor with a clang, and scowled in Frank's direction. Why did it even matter? What did his opinion count for? Frank and Margaret weren't the ones who were about to get the boot. He glanced between the pair of them. "I'll tell you why. I don't care. That's why." He pulled a second canister out, slamming it onto the floor. "I never did. The only reason I ever cared was because it was so funny watching you two flapping over one another trying to pretend to be subtle! But it's not even amusing any more - it's pathetic."

"Oh, like you're one to talk!" Frank snorted. He finished tucking his shirt, pecked Margaret on the cheek like he was showing off, and stalked out.

Margaret didn't follow. She was still adjusting her uniform, although whether this has simply escaped Frank's attention or if it was just a carefully orchestrated scheme to ensure they didn't arrive in O.R. together, Hawkeye couldn't tell. He was familiar enough with the latter, but then, he and Trapper were more subtle. Or rather, had been.

She approached slowly, addressing the back of Hawkeye's head, quietly seething. "Frank's right, Pierce. You are a fine one to talk!"

Hawkeye spun on his heel. "Well, look at the Major calling the Captain khaki!"

"What are you talking about?"

"I mean you and Major Hypocrite looking down your nose at everybody in this camp who indulges in the odd little carnal pastime, when you're no better than any of us! Maybe I did gloat from time to time, but the two of you are so sanctimonious, so judgemental, so inflated on your own superiority, somebody needed to bring you back down to our level!"

"Is that what you think?"

"Yes, that's exactly what I think!" He turned back to his canisters and set about trying to figure out how to move them back to the hospital.

But Margaret wasn't done. Moving in beside him, she stood, hands on hips, his expression angry but resolute. "You think I don't know what it's like to be judged?! Do you think it's easy to be a woman in this man's army; to have... personal relations and think you're an equal, only to find the men are laughing at you behind your back? You think you're so easy-going, so open-minded, but the only time you think a woman is entitled to her sexuality is when she's beneath you - in both respects."

Hawkeye dropped the tank with a crash. "Now, that's a load of..."

"If I didn't outrank you, you'd have been chasing after me like you chase after everybody in this damned unit! Don't think I haven't been on the receiving end of that kind of attention! The way you are with the nurses, I've seen it all before. I've met plenty of men like you in my time, believe me." She paused, thinking for a moment. Then, she bit the bullet. "And I had my fun, just like you. And yet, you think that makes me laughable. You think it undermines my authority. And, as it happens, an awful lot of the world agrees with you. So yes, I know what it's like to walk through a room and feel everybody looking down on you because of your personal life. I know what it's like to be gossiped about in the mess tent. I know what judgement feels like."

Hawkeye listened silently, his hands frozen around the cold metal of the gas tank. "Then I guess we have something in common."

Margaret exhaled slowly and stepped back a little, smoothing her uniform. "I guess we do..."

Her hand rested on one of the canisters, and Hawkeye let her take it as he lifted the other. They struggled with their heavy load, making their way slowly to the door. Hawkeye paused with his hand on the doorknob. "There is one big difference between you and me."

Margaret blinked at him. "What's that, Captain?"

Hawkeye cracked a smile – the first one he'd managed all day. "I have better taste in men."

The stunned Major looked at him for a moment, almost surprised that he was being so blatant. Shock and discomfort flickered across her face, but, in the end she merely nodded. "Granted."

"Jealous?" Hawkeye's smile widened.

"Get the door," Margaret told him.

03:57

What was it he'd said to Father Mulcahy? Eight hours? Close enough… Eight, nine, what was the difference? Either way, Trapper was exhausted. The final patient had insisted on waiting until last, even with two broken legs.

"You're a real gentleman," Hawkeye noted, while slathering one leg in plaster. "Either that or you're terrified of us."

The soldier smiled. "Truth be told," he said quietly, "I was too embarrassed."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. I didn't even get injured in the battle." He dropped his voice and leaned in. "I got run over by the jeep at Battalion Aid."

There was an extremely short silence, punctured almost immediately by Hawkeye howling with laughter. His laughter, as always, was contagious, and even now, even with everything on his mind, Trapper couldn't help but catch his eye, and then he was chuckling too. He needed a laugh, after the day he'd had.

There was a loud clatter as Frank deposited several surgical trays in an untidy heap at the nurse's station. "Oh stop cavorting! Some of us are on post-op duty tomorrow morning and I'd quite like to go to bed!"

"Then go, Frank!" Trapper wound another layer of bandage around Hawkeye's handiwork. "It ain't like you're helpin' us."

Frank huffed, but hesitated at the doorway. "You're trying to get rid of me."

Hawkeye rolled his eyes. "Finally he takes a hint!" The soldier tried to disguise his laughter and very nearly succeeded.

"Oh stop that!" Frank was turning a rather excellent shade of pink. "Corrupting innocents! I knew I shouldn't have left this soldier alone! Not with deviancy and perversion at every turn!"

"Knock it off, Frank!" Hawkeye angrily slopped another handful of plaster onto the bandages. "A little bedside manner never hurt anyone!"

"I don't want to think about your bedside–"

"Frank!" Trapper's voice was little more than a growl.

Still oblivious, the soldier continued to chuckle, his shaking limbs in serious danger of wrecking Hawkeye's plaster work. "It's all good, doc. I don't mind a little draftee humour. These guys crack me up."

Frank cleared the distance between them in four paces. "I think you'll find, Sergeant, that these two go a little beyond what you might class as 'draftee humour'."

The soldier's face fell. "Sorry – Major."

Frank gave a curt nod, then continued. "Mark my words, soldier – I'll be staying right here."

Hawkeye bit his lip. "Okay, fine. Stay. Do whatever you want."

Frank stayed, and he brought an awkward silence with him as a guest, as the two Captains continued to layer plaster upon bandage and vice versa.

"Why's he gotta be here?" the Sergeant piped up, uneasy, gesturing to Frank, who seemed to be standing guard. "He's givin' me the creeps."

Hawkeye shot Frank a look.

Perhaps it was a sudden attack of conscience, or more likely, fear of reprisal, or even embarrassment, but Frank's tone was suddenly hesitant; his words almost uncharacteristically vague. "Well... you know. We're out here fighting for the red white and blue, not the reds and the pinkos. We need to protect our soldiers from the lavender menace. It can come from anywhere."

It was an excellent regurgitation of politician's sound-bites and colour coordination charts, and Hawkeye would have rolled his eyes at it, had he not spotted the soldier worrying at his lip. He froze, up to his wrists in plaster as the Sergeant turned to face him.

"Is he tryin' to be funny?"

"Course 'e is." It was Trapper who spoke. "Just relax, pal."

The Sergeant didn't relax. "He shouldn't joke about stuff like that."

Hawkeye shot Frank a pointed glare. "You're right, Sergeant, he shouldn't."

He hoped his agreement might calm the soldier down. It didn't work. Instead, he turned on Trapper. "I heard a rumour!" His voice had an unpleasant, dangerous edge to it, and Trapper flinched.

Hawkeye tensed. His eyes narrowed, and a thin, joyless smile appeared on his face. "Oh, you did, did you? A rumour? Fancy that."

"At Battalion Aid. Someone said there was a couple of doctors who got caught in the middle of... y'know…"

Hawkeye tossed a lump of plaster into the basin. Water sloshed out onto the floor. "Ah, that popular medicinal pastime of 'y'know'… I know a doctor in D.C. who prescribes a little 'y'know' for haemorrhoids." Trapper winced, but nobody spotted.

The soldier wheeled around again – it was like he was watching a tennis match. "You think that's funny?"

Trapper noticed the manic, furious gleam in Hawkeye's eye, and he knew in that moment they were done for.

"Funny?" Hawkeye abandoned his plastering entirely. "I think it's hilarious! Not content with merely ruining my career in medicine, it would appear the army has decided to feed me to the rumour mill as well as the wolves!"

The soldier turned from Hawkeye, to Trapper, to Frank – who was standing open-mouthed with shock – and back to Hawkeye. Finally he spluttered: "Huh?"

"Your sources are partially correct." This time, Trapper didn't flinch. He was getting worryingly good at predicting Hawkeye's inability to let go of a fight. Hawkeye was using that icy cold tone that Trapper recognised so well – the one that barely concealed the simmering anger beneath. "There were a couple of doctors – I should know, I was one of the couple – but just so you know, we didn't get caught 'in the middle' of anything, unless cuddling got reclassified as a raucous sex act when I wasn't looking!"

"Hawkeye," Trapper hissed, "Don't –"

"And yet," Hawkeye continued loudly, ignoring both Trapper's indignation and Frank slowly picking his jaw off the floor, "the army, in its infinite wisdom, has decided that hauling us up by our short and curlies for a vigorous cross-examination of our sordid personal histories is an exercise worthy of its precious time and resources! And on top of all that, you're telling me that my sex life is now gossip fodder in the front line trenches?"

"Hawk!"

"Shut up, Trapper!" Hawkeye rounded on him. "Open your eyes instead of hoping this will all go away if you screw them shut long enough! We're surrounded by toy soldiers getting shot in chests they've barely grown hair on; kids who know the sound of bombs before they know lullabies; this whole camp is sickeningly familiar with the sound and the sight and the smell of war! And they know it at Battalion Aid too! But they're not horrified by that anymore! They're horrified by us! They're more afraid of men holding hands than holding guns – and I'm telling you, it's fucked! Just not the sort of fucked they care to know about!"

"That is enough, Pierce!"

Frank had finally remembered where his mouth was, and would have almost certainly started shooting it off again, but he was interrupted.

"I don't think I want you plastering my leg."

Hawkeye turned, but held his head high. The soldier met his gaze with eyes that burned with both disgust and defiance. Plaster dripped slowly from Hawkeye's hands.

"Fine."

Before Hawkeye could even wipe his hands, Trapper was gone. Hawkeye listened as his footsteps turned from rotten floorboards to crunching gravel, further and further away. An inhuman bellow. And then a sickening thud. Hawkeye winced.

"Pierce..." Under any other circumstances, Hawkeye might have made note of the sudden softness in Frank's voice. But not now. "Pierce, I think you'd better let me finish up here."

Hawkeye looked at the soldier. "Those two busted legs will get you a free vacation to Tokyo General. Hope you're happy, kid. Maybe we'll end up on the same flight outta Seoul."

And with those words, Doctor Benjamin Franklin Pierce turned away from the last patient he'd ever treat.

04:12

"Are you OK?"

Trapper looked up from his cot. Hawkeye's concerned face – and a makeshift white flag fashioned from his surgical mask, and what appeared to be a twig – was tentatively peeking around the side of the Swamp door.

"I come in peace," Hawkeye continued, with a joviality that didn't quite cover his unease. Once safely inside, he tossed his flag onto the floor. "I heard you going a couple of rounds with the hospital."

Trapper extended his fist. The knuckles were a mess of dried plaster and blood, gently dripping onto the Swamp's dusty floor. "It was the latrine."

"Oh yes, because the location makes all the difference." Hesitation forgotten, Hawkeye strode into the tent, dropped onto Trapper's cot, and grabbed his hand. "Jesus, Trap, I think you've hit a nail. What the hell did you go and do that for?"

Trapper shrugged. "It looks worse than it feels."

"Of course it does! You're tanked up on adrenaline! You couldn't feel a ten ton truck if it hit you in the head! My God, Trapper, of all the stupid…" He trailed off as he stretched Trapper's knuckles, and a trickle of fresh blood oozed out. "You're gonna need a tetanus shot."

He fished under Trapper's cot for the emergency medical kit, wondering if the army would demand it back after the court martial. It was military-issue, after all. Maybe if he could sneak a few crates home before his discharge, he could go into business selling medical supplies in the States… 'Because I sure as hell won't be a doctor any more. I wonder if the army will let me take a few tongue depressors and hypodermics as severance.'

Trapper interrupted his reverie. "Why'd ya have to shoot your mouth off like that anyway?"

Hawkeye arose with a needle and vial in hand, and shrugged. "I won't have people talking about us that way." Trapper shifted uncomfortably as Hawkeye set up the tetanus shot. "I won't! Our personal lives are not some… sordid source of amusement for the terminally narrow-minded! We're people – people who got close and… and did the same thing countless other people have done: what Frank and Hotlips do every other night, and Henry and Leslie, and… and we deserve respect."

Trapper grimaced. 'Us… We…' It was a funny way Hawkeye had of talking: like they could walk out of the army and into a house with a picket-fence, two kids and a Dalmatian. He winced a little as Hawkeye slid the needle into his arm, and there was silence for a moment. Trapper didn't dare break it.

"There's something going on between Nurse Carter and Nurse Feinberg," Hawkeye said at last.

Trapper pressed his fingers on the spot where Hawkeye's needle had broken the skin. "How'd'ya know? Did ya strike out with 'em or somethin'?"

"I walked in on them." Hawkeye delved into the medical kit again, looking for bandages and rubbing alcohol. "This is going to sting."

"Oh yeah? Doin' what?" He hissed as the alcohol sloshed over his hand.

"Just talking." Hawkeye barely quirked a smile at Trapper's curiosity. "I think they're spooked. I know what an intense conversation looks like, and this one was right in the X-ray room!" Hawkeye dabbed at Trapper's knuckles. "You've heard Margaret give those mandatory lectures... Spotting Lesbians in the WAC," he intoned in a mock-military voice. They'd snuck in on a few of those lectures, in the days before all this started. Hawkeye had swallowed his fear, laughed at the Major's embarrassed innuendo, and hoped his jokes about lending them some 'training footage' would mask the tightly coiled worry curling in his gut.

Trapper looked at him. "Why're you tellin' me this?"

Hawkeye picked up a fresh bandage. "Why? Trapper, they're worried because of us! And now I'm worried about them! I'm not completely self-absorbed, and I'm also not keen on double-dating at the court martial!"

Trapper continued to look at him with a puzzled frown. "What are we s'posed to about it?"

"I don't know! Talk to them! Warn them, or something!" Hawkeye gesticulated desperately the direction of the hospital.

"Warn 'em?" Trapper laughed hollowly. "I think we're doin' a pretty good job of that already."

Hawkeye opened his mouth, but whatever argument was about to issue forth was derailed by a knock at the Swamp door, and, an instant later, the arrival of Henry Blake. Hawkeye jumped up from Trapper's cot on reflex, and Henry gamely pretended not to notice as he leaned against the tent pole and tried to remember how to form sentences.

"Evening, boys. Or morning. I can't tell, my eyelids are trying to glue themselves together... McIntyre, what have you done to your hand?"

Trapper glanced at Hawkeye's handiwork.

"Trapper had a fight with the latrine and lost. Come on Henry, spill. You've got that look like there's ants issuing orders in your pants."

Henry shifted awkwardly on his feet. "Well, Radar finally got through to J-Corp. We got the court martial postponed."

"Wonderful. Drinks are on me."

"Yeah… except they've only agreed on a postponement until we stopped operating. Preliminary hearings start at nine o'clock sharp. Then the Colonel's looking to start full court martial proceedings that afternoon, following a legal brief."

"That'll be a very brief brief…" The line fell out of Hawkeye's mouth automatically.

Trapper stared. "Can they do that?"

"Only if the Brass eat their lunch fast enough."

Trapper shot Hawkeye an irritated glare, but deigned not to comment. Hawkeye couldn't handle a crisis without wisecracking, and that wasn't about to change any time soon. "Nine o'clock? Henry, we ain't slept in almost forty-eight hours, an' we've been in surgery for twenty-four o' those! Can't we at least get some sack time before they ricochet us outta this dump?"

"I'm not happy about it either, McIntyre, but all I know is the Colonel is sending a Jeep for you in less than four hours! So maybe look on the bright side: at least it'll all be over soon." He winced. "I didn't mean it like–"

"We know what you meant, Henry. Forget it." Trapper rolled over on his bunk. "D'ya think we can turn in for the night, now? What little there is left of it."

Henry backed out of the room, grateful for the excuse. His footsteps faded away to nothing, and left the camp doused in silence. Not even the crickets were awake yet.

Trapper turned out the light, and flipped over, trying to get comfortable. It wouldn't happen. Henry's words echoed – 'It'll all be over soon.'

This was it. The end. In a few hours the army would unceremoniously extract him from Korea, and he would return the States in disgrace. Try to face Louise and the girls after all of this. Try to put Hawkeye behind him. Try to carry on.

The cot creaked, and Hawkeye clambered in beside him. "Hawk, what are you–?"

"Shh." Hawkeye pressed a very soft kiss to Trapper's lips and wrapped his arms around him. And, God help him, Trapper kissed him back, and their arms wrapped around each other like they were clinging to the edge of the world.

He tried desperately to think of Louise as Hawkeye idly ran his fingers across his shoulders. "If you think we're gonna –"

Hawkeye shook his head. "Of course I don't. I just…" His sigh turned into a choke, and Trapper realised he was absolutely not going to get any sleep. "Hold me?"

It was an innocent enough request, but even this felt too intimate. As much as Trapper ached to pull Hawkeye to him and wrap his arms around him and never let go, he couldn't escape the feeling that, if he did that, his heart would break. Instead, his hand was drawn inexplicably to Hawkeye's dog tags as they dangled at his chest, glinting in the moonlight. He wrapped his fingers around them, his thumb tracing over the letters, as if to carve the tactile memory of his name into his mind, as if it were stamped into his very soul. Hawkeye hovered beside him, the hurt and confusion on his face fading to mild amusement at the gesture. Then, his hand went over Trapper's, squeezing tightly, pressing the metal against his palm.

Despite the protests of his rational mind, Trapper gently pulled at the mental chain, drawing Hawkeye closer so he could kiss him. Hawkeye's breath was harsh and uneven. His tears fell onto Trapper's cheeks.

"Trapper?" His voice was little more than a whimper, and the name carried more questions than either one of them could dare to ask. Trapper squeezed tighter. Steel cut into his palm.

He released his hold only when Hawkeye broke the kiss, finding a tag-shaped indentation in his palm. He chuckled slightly, holding his hand up, for Hawkeye to see, but Hawkeye didn't laugh. Instead, his fingers went to trace the mirror image of his name, gently caressing the skin until the letters vanished, and the flesh became smooth again.

"Come on, Hawk," Trapper murmured at last. "Let's get some sleep."

Hawkeye nodded in reply. Trapper nudged him to turn over, and spooned against him, Hawkeye's hair tickling his nose. The slight, skinny body in his arms trembled, until, at last, desperately quiet sobs turned to restless dozing. Trapper lay awake, wrapped around his lover, willing the wounded to come; willed this night to never end. And for the last time, he listened to the sound of absolute silence.

Footnote: Thank you to Sidney (aka the inimitable asinfreedom) for her availability and openness on the philosophies and ethics of Catholicism, which helped to shape Trapper and Mulcahy's conversation into something which we hope is both sympathetic and realistic.