Web Hosting by Netfirms | Free Domain Names by Netfirms

Rating: R (for profanity and not-terribly-graphic sex)

Pairing: Pierce/Mulcahy

Summary: After a traumatic ordeal, Father Mulcahy has a crisis of faith.

Feedback: Yes, please. Constructive crit is graciously accepted.

Notes/warnings: Slash (of course), hurt/comfort, more angst/sap than plot. Please -- if the concept of slash involving a Catholic priest squicks you, then (duh!) you might not want to read this. Don't make me say "I told you so." :)

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters that I do not own, nor will I ever. I am making no money off this flight of fancy, nor will I ever. So there's really no need to get anyone's lawyers in a lather.

by iolanthe <iolanthe@cais.com>

Oh, God, not another one...

You can understand that, having spent nearly twelve hours on my feet piecing together the insides of dozens of strangers like so many jigsaw puzzles, I was less than thrilled to witness the arrival of yet one more occupied stretcher. Casualties were the only supply our surgical hospital unit never seemed to lack, but I'd hoped that this evening's round of mayhem was as good as over.

"Trap, can you take this one?" I called out, already waving the stretcher bearers in the direction of my fellow surgeon and bunkmate.

Unfortunately, at the moment Trapper John McIntyre was planted wrists-deep inside the chest of some unlucky kid. "Sure, Hawkeye. Soon as I grow that extra pair of arms I've been thinkin' about."

Damn. Well, maybe I could still leave this last dance for someone else...

"Don't even think about asking me, Pierce. I'm done." Ah, the vocal stylings of our own Major Frank Burns. "Our own" because no one else will have him. Burns was already stripping off his scrubs, having granted head nurse Major Houlihan the privilege of tidying up the mess he probably made of his last patient.

"Frank, I wouldn't ask you to the prom if you were the last girl in Korea." Not one of my better efforts, but it served its purpose and Ferret Face stalked out of the O.R. in a suitable huff.

So there it was. With our fearless leader Colonel Blake out of reach in Seoul, that left no other surgeon on whom I could foist this guy. Resigned, I peeled off my bloodied gloves and struggled into a fresh pair while the stretcher was brought to my table.

When you work on as many patients as we do, and at the pace we do, you tend to stop seeing them as individuals. We have to focus on patching up the bodies as fast as possible and not worry about which ones might have a wife and kids back home or which ones might someday run for president. I only mention this to help you understand why it took all of us so long to recognize the man now lying unconscious in front of me.

Even in its sleep-starved state, my brain registered that there was something odd about this patient. For one thing, underneath the sheet he wasn't wearing a stitch -- no uniform, no boots, not even dog tags. And while there was some dried blood, as well as extensive bruising, there were no fresh open wounds. The injuries were inconsistent with what we normally saw in frontline casualties; this guy had been pounded with blunt objects, not torn apart by shrapnel.

I palpated the abdomen, searching for internal damage, and was rewarded with a faint moan. When I glanced over at the guy's face to see if he was waking up, that's when it finally clicked.

I swore rather colorfully, even by my standards.

"Hawk? What is it?" asked Trapper, alerted by my careful word choices that something was amiss.

Our eyes locked across the operating tables, but it took a moment for me to unclench my jaw enough to answer him. "It's Father Mulcahy."

A hush fell over the room as everyone turned toward my table to confirm that the 4077th's chaplain was indeed laid out upon it.

"Jesus Christ, are you kidding me?" Trapper craned his neck to see for himself. "I thought he was at the orphanage, not the front!"

"I don't think he was at the front. Looks more like he went a few rounds with Jack Dempsey."

"Need help? I'm really almost done here."

"Yeah." While I waited for Trapper, I studied Mulcahy's battered face, trying to imagine why someone might have wanted to beat the hell out of one of the most inoffensive and kind-spirited men I had ever known. Just when you think you've seen the worst of it here...

A pat on my shoulder diverted me from that pointless line of thought. It was Margaret Houlihan, her eyes bright as if they might shed tears, though she was far too Regular Army to let such a thing happen on duty. Wordlessly she touched Mulcahy's cheek and smoothed his hair.

Then she moved to Trapper's side and I heard her offer to close for him. People were slowly turning their attention back to their work, but the atmosphere remained subdued. Not that what we do here is normally a barrel of laughs, mind you, but this was different; Francis Mulcahy was one of us -- part of the family, if you want to get all sentimental about it.

Trapper soon joined me across the table and lifted the sheet to survey our patient's injuries. "Jesus," he muttered. No other comment seemed necessary, so we set to work.

In some ways, Mulcahy was lucky. As it turned out, the damage looked much worse than it was. Although he had sustained a bruised liver and two fractured ribs along with countless contusions of varying severity, by some miracle we found no evidence of internal bleeding.

But what we did find was more disturbing. Apparently the simple pleasures of a good thrashing hadn't been enough for this assailant -- Mulcahy had also endured violence of a more intrusive nature.

Hell, there's no delicate way to put it. He'd been sodomized. Viciously.

Trapper and I did what we could for him, then taped up his ribs and got him relocated to a bed in post-op. "Time to start drinking?" Trapper asked quietly. "There's a double martini with your name on it back at the Swamp."

"You go ahead and start without me." Though the promise of alcoholic oblivion held an awful lot of appeal, maybe more so than usual, I was reluctant to leave until our patient regained consciousness. There would be plenty of time to dull my own pain later.

--o00o--

"Hawkeye?"

Ah, a pleasant dream for a change. Someone -- a female someone -- was whispering sweetly into my ear. Her hand touched my shoulder...jostled it...

"Captain Pierce?"

Damn, it was only the night duty nurse, trying to wake me. I had been indulging in a quick nap on one of the operating tables, there being no empty beds in post-op after today's festivities.

"Sorry, sir," she said, "but you did ask me to come get you when Father Mulcahy woke up."

"And I thank you for it, Nurse Barron." As I hopped down, I gave her the best approximation of a charming smile that I could muster. Barron was a nice gal, and not bad looking. Wouldn't want to burn any bridges there.

In post-op, I dragged a chair over to the chaplain's bed and sat down. He was indeed awake, staring blankly up at the ceiling, but he didn't seem to notice that I was there. I wondered with a pang of empathy whether he might be recalling the attack.

"Father?"

He turned his head in my direction. "Is that you, Hawkeye? I'm afraid I can't be sure at the moment."

Of course, I should have realized -- the wire-rimmed glasses that rarely left his face had gone the way of his dog tags and everything else. "The one and only," I confirmed. "How are you feeling? I can give you something for the pain."

Mulcahy chuckled, pressing a hand to his bandaged ribs when they protested. "Perhaps for the physical pain, but..." He let the sentence go unfinished, but it was easy enough to fill in the blanks.

No merciful case of amnesia, then. I asked if he could tell me what happened.

He directed his gaze back toward the ceiling. "There's not much to tell. I was driving supplies out to the orphanage, I was waylaid by black marketeers, I was assaulted and then, one assumes, left for dead by the roadside."

"Can you remember details? Anything that might help us track these bastards down?"

Mulcahy's eyes closed and he drew a shuddering breath. "I remember all of it, Hawkeye," came the hushed admission. "And right now I almost wish they had left me dead."

My heart fell straight through the floor, and I fought down a wave of anger. If I could have gotten at the lowlife scum responsible for this, I would have gleefully carved them into bite-sized chunks with a rusty scalpel. And danced the Highland Fling on their graves. Instead, I reached out to take Mulcahy's hand.

It was the right move. He clasped my hand gratefully, and we sat in silence like that for a long while.

When he spoke again, his voice was rough. "You needn't worry," he said with a little half-smile. "I'm not going to off myself. The Church tends to frown on that sort of thing."

I cast about for something else to say, anything that might be comforting, but came up short. Post-trauma counseling just wasn't my area of expertise. "Look, Father, do you want to talk to someone else about this? We can get Sidney Freedman up here, or maybe another chaplain..."

His hand tightened around mine. "I...don't think I can. Not yet."

I nodded, then retreated to less awkward ground by launching into an explanation of what he could expect during his physical recovery. A safe subject in which I was not out of my depth. Mulcahy listened politely, but I had to wonder if he was really taking it all in.

By the time I'd finished with the doc talk, exhaustion had caught up with me. My catnap earlier had only postponed the inevitable crash. "Father, I think we'll both feel much better after about twenty-four hours of sleep. But I'll be back to check on you, all right?" I rose from the chair, stretching out my poor abused spine, and turned to leave.

"Hawkeye..."

I glanced back. "Yeah?"

"Thank you."

The look on his face stayed with me all the way back to the Swamp and then had the unmitigated nerve to haunt me in my dreams.

--o00o--

On my next visit to post-op, in the early evening, Mulcahy seemed to have regained some of his usual good cheer. I learned that a steady stream of well-wishers had visited his bedside throughout the day and that some kind soul had fetched his spare pair of specs and a copy of the Good Book from his tent.

"How's the ribs?"

"They'd be better with some coleslaw," he joked, wincing as I probed the area under discussion.

I lowered my voice to discourage curious listeners. "You holding up all right?"

"Much better today, Hawkeye. I..." He paused, uncertain, then decided to plunge ahead. "I appreciated your company last night. It meant a lot to me, having someone there to talk to. Even if I didn't talk very much."

Vaguely embarrassed, I fell back on flippancy. "Stop it, Father," I grinned. "You'll make me blush."

I think he understood; having spoken his piece, he let it drop. We chatted some more about innocuous things until it was time for me to go meet Trapper in the mess tent for a round of the swill that passes for food around here.

"Father's doin' better today, huh?" was Trapper's first question, before we even sat down. When I hadn't come back to the tent in time to claim my double martini, he figured I must've been pretty worried.

"Yeah. Says he's all right." I poked a fork at the unidentifiable lump of grey on my tray. Meat?

"Damn, after what happened, I don't know how he can sit there and smile and claim to be all right. If it was me, I'd be fuckin' ready to kill somebody."

"You'll never get into divinity school with that attitude, young man," I cracked. "Forgiveness is written into his job description."

Trapper gnawed on a piece of what turned out to be liver. "Still, it can't be healthy to just forgive and forget something like that. It can fester, explode later on down the road..."

"Jeez, Trap. If the guy's not out gunning down random civilians, he must be suppressing his anger? Who knows, maybe priests have other ways to channel it." I guess I was trying to convince myself as well as Trapper, because what he said actually made sense. Maybe I just wanted to sugarcoat a raw deal -- wanted to forget that unspeakable things had been done to a harmless, gentle man and that there was precisely nothing I could do about it.

But Trapper eased off, as if he sensed that I was somehow more invested in Mulcahy's well-being than he'd thought.

Which gave me pause, since I hadn't been looking at it that way. Why was I feeling so protective, anyway? Why had I stayed at Mulcahy's side all night when I was dead-dog tired? If it had been anyone else in our unit, would I have had the same reaction? I didn't have a ready answer. Hell, I don't know, maybe on some level I'd been idealizing the chaplain as the last bastion of innocence in our little circle of hell. And if something like this could happen to a priest, what hope was there for the rest of us?

Trapper ended up finishing most of my liver when my appetite deserted me.

--o00o--

After five days, we sprung Father Mulcahy from post-op to let him finish recuperating in his own tent. We really needed the bed space -- the fighting in our area was heating up, and casualties once again flowed like cheap champagne on New Year's. I arranged to have meds and meals brought to him and promised to check in at least once a day.

As busy as we were, it was impossible to stick to that promise. But I made a point of nailing down volunteers among the nurses to tend to him and keep him company when I couldn't make it. Margaret herself went a couple of times.

Five weeks along, I professed myself amazed at how well Mulcahy was healing. His ribs were at a stage that should have taken longer to achieve, and his liver was much improved, as well. All but the worst of the external bruising had pretty much faded. He joked about "clean living" and "having the right connections" -- who knows, maybe there was something in that. I gave him clearance to fly solo to the mess tent or anywhere else in camp, as long as he was careful.

You'd think this would be good news, but I caught a note of apprehension in his response, as if he might be reluctant to leave the safe haven of his tent. So I renewed my offer to bring in a psychiatrist and reminded him that he had plenty of friends here, myself included, who would be happy to lend a sympathetic ear if he wanted to talk, but each suggestion was deftly deflected.

I gave up and returned to the Swamp for a few of those double martinis.

To my surprise, Mulcahy did make it to the officer's mess for breakfast the next morning, walking rather stiffly but with a pleasant smile for everyone there. He accepted their greetings and good wishes as though he'd returned from a long vacation instead of convalescence.

It appeared that his coping strategy had become "let's just pretend everything's fine." Defeated, I dug into my powdered eggs and tried to pay attention to whatever Trapper was nattering on about. Hell, I'd given it my best shot. What was I gonna do, hold a gun to the guy's head and force him to see a shrink? That would net me Klinger's Section 8, for sure.

--o00o--

My resolve resurrected itself, however, after a few more days of watching Mulcahy feign social interaction while keeping everyone at emotional arm's length. It was painful to witness in a man once renowned for his warmth; surely I wasn't the only one to have noticed?

But I was finally forced to concede that somewhere along the line, for whatever reason, I had embraced the chaplain's rehabilitation as my own personal crusade. And now that the physical part was done, I could hardly leave the job half-finished.

Since Mulcahy couldn't be persuaded to seek help on his own initiative, I had to go with a less subtle approach. The plan, such as it was, involved a full bottle of Swamp-distilled gin, two glasses, and the dead of night.

I figured 1:00 a.m. would be about right. An hour for human vulnerability if ever there was one.

Though I tried to be stealthy about sneaking out, I heard Trapper (who I am convinced can hear the crackle of ice cubes in Tokyo from here) whisper, "Where you goin', Hawk?"

"Got a date," I shot back, glancing over at Frank Burns' bunk. But the Ferret snored on, as oblivious as when he's awake.

"A whole bottle of vintage Tuesday morning? Hope she's worth it!" grumbled Trapper good-naturedly. "I'll want all the gory details later." He was already asleep as I left the tent and set out across the compound.

I tapped on the chaplain's door, just hard enough to wake him but not the neighbors, and before long he answered my summons wrapped in his plaid bathrobe and blinking sleepily, glasses askew.

"Hawkeye? What...?"

Not giving him the option of a polite rebuff this time, I strode past him into the tent and claimed a chair, pointedly setting the bottle down on the table.

That inspired a puzzled frown and an adjustment of the specs. "What's going on?"

"Sit." I indicated the chair opposite mine.

Warily, he lowered himself into the chair and watched as I filled two martini glasses with gin and handed one of them over.

"Drink," I said.

"I don't think..."

"Don't think. Drink. That's an order, Lieutenant."

The frown deepened, but he complied. I drained my own drink and poured refills while I waited for him to recover. Swamp gin is powerful stuff, and poor Mulcahy was not accustomed to it.

When the gasping subsided, he rounded on me. "Oh, for Heaven's sake, it's the middle of the night! What are you doing here?"

"My son, I have come to hear your confession. We're going to get you good and drunk, and then you're going to spill your guts to Father Pierce."

I caught a flash of something in his eyes. Irritation? "Don't you understand? This isn't something I can just...talk about!" His arms went around his chest as if he were trying to hold it all in by force.

Adamant, I held out his second gin. "As your doctor, not to mention your friend, I can't let this go on -- something is obviously wrong. You won't talk to a professional, you won't talk to another clergyman, so you're stuck with talking to me. Now drink."

For a minute I thought he was going to hit me, but then his expression relaxed and he accepted the glass. "I'm sorry, Hawkeye. I shouldn't have snapped at you."

"No, no, that was good," I insisted. "You need to get angry."

He arched skeptical eyebrows.

"Look, Father, I was serious about the confessional thing. I swear, anything that happens here tonight will be held in the strictest confidence. Go ahead and scream, cry, yell at me, break stuff if you want to. Consider it therapy." I tossed back my drink and risked a bit of levity. "You'll really want to scream when you get my bill."

It worked. Mulcahy laughed and downed the gin, more easily this time. We managed to put away half a dozen substantial belts apiece before he broke the silence. "You're right, you know," he ventured, the alcohol rendering his enunciation somewhat less precise than usual. "I am angry. But even worse..."

I waited for the rest, but he seemed reluctant to go on. "What? What's worse?" I prompted, suspecting that we were now getting down to brass tacks.

He stared down into his glass and, barely audible, mumbled, "I may have lost my faith."

The air left my lungs in a rush. Once again, Mulcahy had shoved me into the deep end of the pool, where I could only flounder helplessly. Damn it, why hadn't he let me call in a priest? What did I know about faith, for God's sake? I don't remember having any since I landed in Korea.

But at least he was talking, and I couldn't afford to let him duck back into his shell now. "Tell me," I coaxed, shuffling my chair closer to his until our knees almost touched. "Talk to me."

His face was flushed from the gin, or maybe it was a blush, and he still wouldn't look me in the eye. "While it was happening," he began, in his soft tenor voice, "while they were hitting me, kicking me, in my mind I prayed to God. Over and over I pleaded with Him to make them stop. But they wouldn't stop. And when they'd had enough of beating and cursing me, just when I thought it was mercifully at an end, they held me down and...and..."

I carefully pried the empty glass from Mulcahy's grasp and interlaced his trembling fingers with my own. It had helped before, and it calmed him now.

A weak chuckle as he focused his attention on our linked hands. "I know how silly that must sound -- expecting direct personal intervention from the Almighty. Intellectually I know that's not how it works. But I couldn't help it -- I felt like I'd been betrayed. Abandoned in my hour of need after years of loyal devotion. How could I admit that to anyone and still do my job?"

Yeah, I could've used an extra priest right about then... "Not silly," I countered. "To me it sounds human. Doesn't every person of faith have the occasional doubt? I imagine the clergy aren't exempt. And if faith is never tested, how can you tell if it's the real thing or not?"

Mulcahy raised his head and fixed me with a searching gaze. There were glints of moisture at the corners of his eyes. "But what if I've already failed the test? What if this means I'm not truly meant for the priesthood?"

"Trust me, Father, I don't think I've ever met anyone more suited to the job. Please -- don't give up on yourself. The 4077th would be a far poorer place without you."

"Hawkeye, do you really mean that?" He was clearly touched; the tears had begun to make their escape.

Funny thing was, I think I did mean it.

To this day, I'm not 100 percent sure what drove me do what I did next. It would be easy to blame the booze, but I wasn't so far gone as to be unaware of my actions. Maybe it had been building up inside me since the night he was laid out on the operating table, placed by default under my care. I don't know. All I know is that it felt like the right thing to do at the time.

Instead of replying in words, I got up from the chair without releasing my hold on his hand, and he rose with me almost automatically. We stood inches apart for several beats, eyes locked. And then I pulled him, surprised but unresisting, into an embrace.

With a tiny choke, the dam finally burst and Mulcahy wept for a good long time into the hollow of my shoulder. As he let go of all the pent-up rage and fear and frustration, I rubbed his back and muttered soothing nonsense, as a parent might do for a child.

Even after the tears had abated, we continued to cling to each other, each drawing comfort from the simple human contact. I wondered idly how long it had been since the chaplain was held like this.

But soon it was his turn to surprise me. Without any warning, I felt the unmistakable warmth of lips brushing the base of my neck, sending a shiver down the length of my spine. When lightning failed to strike us down where we stood, he risked another tentative kiss further up the side of my neck.

Hell yes, I was shocked.

More shocking, I was torn. Don't get me wrong -- I'm straight. I love women and will always prefer them, forever and ever, amen. But I'd be lying if I told you I'd never fooled around with other men. You know, youthful experimentation and such. Let's just say I don't find the concept in itself completely disgusting. (Good thing I was there and not Frank or Trapper, or Mulcahy might have ended up back in the hospital for trying something like that.)

But of all people... Whatever spiritual crisis he was going through, he was still a Catholic priest, bound by vows. I couldn't encourage him in any activity he might be obliged to excoriate himself for later. Nor did I like the idea of taking advantage of anyone in this vulnerable a state.

I kept telling myself that as I allowed him to work his way across my jawline. The gentle kisses were having more of an intoxicating effect than the alcohol, and if I didn't put a stop to this soon...

Too late. Mulcahy, his face still streaked with spent tears, pressed his lips to mine. I spiraled down into a pool of lust as I let myself taste him -- the salty tears, the sharp tang of gin. Hell, it seemed I wanted this as much as he did.

But somehow I found the strength to pull back, seeking clarity before things went too far. He stared up at me wide-eyed -- a definite "oh-my-God-what-have-I-done?" kind of look.

"Father..." All right, so the title had to go. "Francis," I amended, "are you sure?"

I felt him flinch when I used his first name; one more barrier between us had crumbled. "I...I don't know..."

He was trapped halfway between shame and desire, desperation stark in every line of his body. The long years of self-denial must have taken their toll -- he was as confused as any teenage virgin. Or wait, what if this actually was his first experience?

Oh, marvelous. Yet another reason, as if more were needed, not to pursue this any further. Nobody deserves to be stuck with a selfish cad like me their first time out. I considered leaving, nipping the whole bizarre scenario in the bud, but one more look into those expressive eyes and I couldn't bring myself to do it. Hey, I don't kick puppies, either.

Still, we had some ground to cover first. I steered Mulcahy over to his bunk and we sat down side by side, shoulders touching. "You know I can't offer you anything serious," I warned him. "For one thing, you've seen how I go through nurses."

"Doesn't that make you the perfect choice for a man who's already committed...elsewhere?" He cast a wry glance skyward.

You must admit that argument made a certain amount of sense, taking into account the lateness of the hour and our level of inebriation. And at the time, I was strongly inclined to take his answer at face value, without delving into any possible feelings he might have for me or how long said feelings might have been developing. "Avoid complication" -- words I like to live by.

"All right," I went on, "now that you've answered 'why me?' let's get to the bigger question: why?"

"It's quite selfish, I'm afraid," he confessed, studying the floor at our feet. "After experiencing such cruel brutality, I suppose I feel somehow entitled to experience the opposite. To be touched by someone who...cares about me."

God, how did he do it? How did this man keep striking my heart with such artless and deadly accuracy? "I do care," I admitted roughly. "That's why I have to be absolutely sure you know what you're getting into."

"Honestly, I don't know what I'm getting into." A sidelong glance and a half-smile of embarrassment. "I've never...been intimate with anyone."

Bingo. Of course he would be pure as the driven snow. Captain Pierce, you may now proceed directly to hell, do not pass Go, do not collect $200.

I turned his face to mine and compelled him to look at me. "Francis, the decision has to be yours."

Mulcahy swallowed hard but did not hesitate. "Stay with me, Hawkeye. Please."

And thus the die was cast. Grasping him gently by the shoulders, I pulled him toward me and brushed my lips over his, an echo of his first brave attempt on my neck. Eyelids fluttered closed and lips parted to allow me access, of which I took full and intense advantage.

He proved to have quite the agile tongue, matching me kiss for kiss as he steadily gained confidence. A born sensualist, wasted on a life of celibacy -- it was enough to make one weep. I drew back for a moment and was treated to the sight of a dazed and breathless Francis John Patrick Mulcahy with ruffled hair, ruddy cheeks, and lips swollen from my ardent attentions.

Of all the surreal experiences I've had in Korea, I'd have to number this one among the top two. At least.

Guessing it was time to move things along, I untied his robe and helped him shrug out of it. That left him clad only in shorts and a black shirt and left me overdressed. He watched intently as I pulled off boots and fatigues, t-shirt and shorts. Disrobing is often the most annoying part of sex, but in this case it gave me a mild kick, stripping for the priest. He was such an appreciative audience.

When I rejoined him on the bed, now impediment-free, he reached out shyly to touch my chest. "So beautiful," he murmured.

The sincerity of the compliment scored another groove across my heart. Oh, he meant it; idle flattery was not in his repertoire. I also sensed that he didn't require -- and likely wouldn't accept -- an equivalent response from me.

So instead I slid my hands up under his shirt and slipped it over his head. In recent weeks, of course, I had seen Mulcahy unclothed on a regular basis as my patient, but in these radically different circumstances, I made myself take the time to appreciate his body from a new perspective, running my hands over the smooth planes of his chest, his shoulders, his sides, taking special care in the areas I knew were still tender. He sighed with pleasure.

Eventually, I hooked a finger in the waistband of his shorts. He took the hint and stood up to remove them, revealing that he had definitely enjoyed my touch.

We stretched out face to face on the narrow bunk. Damned army cots weren't good for much, but motivated couples will always find a way. I reached out to remove his glasses, fearing for their safety, but he caught my hand. "No...I want to see you."

Aw, hell. Like I said, the man deserved better than me. I offered up a silent entreaty to whoever might be listening that this unconventional form of therapy would end up helping my friend more than it hurt him.

Mulcahy was letting his sensitive fingertips rove all over my body in a headlong rush of exploration. I allowed him to go wherever he pleased, frankly relishing the attention. I would've expected more hesitance from a lifelong celibate, but it appeared that the chaplain was determined to make the most of his window of opportunity.

Unable to remain passive for long, I engaged him in a fresh round of kisses while massaging his back in long, slow strokes. Thanks to the limited bed space, we were about as close as two people can get without undergoing fusion, and we rubbed against each other at an arousing angle. To tell you the truth, it was driving me quite blissfully insane.

But when my caresses moved farther south to trace the curve of his backside, he tensed up instantly. Something I should have foreseen. I left my hands where they were but hastened to calm him. "I'm not going to hurt you, Francis," I breathed into his ear. "You're calling the shots, understand?"

"Understood," was the quiet reply.

He gradually relaxed under my careful ministrations and was soon reciprocating with some creative fondling of his own, which I must say was properly appreciated. I found myself wishing that this night could go on for, say, another week or two, but things were going far too well to last that long.

So I scooted onto my back, rolling Mulcahy with me so he ended up on top. He smiled questioningly down at me, confused, until I wriggled a hand in between us and made some minor adjustments. His delighted gasp as my thighs closed together around him told me that everything had now become crystal clear.

Clumsily at first, then with growing assurance, he moved atop me. Oh, God, it was achingly sweet to watch the expressions on his face as he experienced this particular pleasure of the flesh for the first and only time in his life. I noted that he was studying my reactions with equal fascination.

And when he clutched me hard against his chest and cried out my name, damned if it didn't send me over the brink right along with him.

The minute Mulcahy recovered his breath, he propped himself up on his hands to regard me with something uncomfortably close to reverence. "Oh, my," he sighed. "Oh, Hawkeye, I don't know what to say! That was..."

To distract him, I flashed a wicked grin. "A religious experience? Did you have visions?"

He dealt me a playful smack on the arm, and I retaliated by wrestling him back onto his side and briefly exploiting my knowledge of his ticklish spots.

I hadn't heard him laugh like that in a long while, and you could tell it wasn't just from the tickling.

He patted my hip, blue eyes still twinkling. "I know you don't want to hear this, but.."

Uh-oh. I'm afraid I panicked then, positive I knew what he was going to say. "Please don't," I implored. "It can only complicate things, and I'd say we've had enough complications for one night."

A wistful shadow flitted across his face but was quickly suppressed. "I only meant to say 'thank you.' In our position, anything else...is perhaps better left unsaid."

Fuck me for being fifty kinds of idiot. Though he hadn't spoken the actual words, Mulcahy had confirmed that his regard for me ran deeper than mere camaraderie. I banged a fist against my forehead, mentally cursing myself for jumping the gun.

"Hawkeye, please!" He stayed my hand, doubtless concerned for my sanity. "It's all right. I will cherish this night for the rest of my life, but I accepted it in the spirit in which it was given -- no strings attached."

I understood. He was assuring me that life would go on as before; I was under no further obligation. But, damn it, now that I knew...

"Francis Mulcahy, you must be bucking for sainthood," I teased with gentle sympathy.

"Not sainthood." The half-smile was back. "Just friendship."

I kissed him one last time, soft and lingering, and whispered, "That, I can promise you."

--o00o--

The sun had already started to rise by the time I left Mulcahy's tent. At his request, I had stayed with him until he fell asleep. I don't think he wanted to be awake to see the door literally close on our intimacy.

Exhausted, I stumbled back to the Swamp, reshelved the empty bottle and martini glasses, and, not bothering to undress, dropped like a rock into my own bunk. Fortunately, my tentmates were still dead to the world, so there were no awkward questions.

I grunted at Trapper when he tried to wake me for breakfast, and he left me in peace after a couple of sly insinuations. (Ah, if the lad only knew.) But by lunchtime, my beauty rest had to be cut short. I had to make the rounds in post-op in an hour, and I never liked to face that on an empty stomach.

Trapper, who rarely missed a meal, had saved a seat for me, so I plunked my tray down and joined him.

"Soooo, Hawkeye," he grinned, waving a forkful of mashed potatoes at my nose, "who was last night's lucky lady? From what I saw this morning, she rode you hard and put you away wet!"

"Don't you know that gentlemen never kiss and tell?"

"Suddenly you're a gentleman? Congratulations on your promotion, sir."

I snapped him a mock salute, which he returned with panache.

"Seriously, though, how was it? At least tell me you made good use of the hooch."

"It went to a very worthy cause," I replied with conviction. "And a fine time was had by all."

Trapper was disappointed that I wasn't being as forthcoming as usual, but before he could work up a good pout, something distracted him. He dug an elbow into my ribs and gestured in the direction of the chow line. "Hey, Hawk, check this out!"

I looked to see what was so fascinating that it could divert my friend's attention from my sex life and felt a twinge in my gut when it turned out to be Father Mulcahy, getting his lunch. Ordinarily an unremarkable sight, but today something about the chaplain was drawing more than one curious glance.

Watching as he chatted with the mess workers and his neighbors in line, I was able to pinpoint it. Instead of the paralyzing uncertainty and fear that had kept him so isolated in recent weeks, today Mulcahy was radiating benevolent good cheer that was nearly tangible. A beatific smile waxed and waned but never quite left his face, drawing responsive smiles from everyone on whom he bestowed it.

"What's up with him?" wondered Trapper, asking me the question that must have been on the minds of many. I wasn't about to enlighten him, so naturally he had to take matters into his own hands and wave Mulcahy over to join us.

"Hello, Trapper. Hawkeye." The smile, with a hint of extra sparkle, as he sat down opposite me.

"Gee, Father, you're practically glowing," Trapper teased. "If I didn't know better, I'd almost think you got lucky last night."

"Oh! Haha..." Mulcahy's cheeks pinked up noticeably. "Well, you see, I just received a gift from a dear friend, and it's raised my spirits immeasurably."

I froze in mid-breath, coffee mug on the way to my lips. What was he playing at?

"What kind of gift? New rosary? Money for the orphanage?" Make no mistake, Trapper John has always been entirely too curious for his own good.

"Actually it's more of a...spiritual gift."

"Oh, I see." At that, Trapper lost interest immediately, which I'm sure was Mulcahy's intent all along. I winked and raised my mug in a subtle salute to the chaplain's audacity.

But there was more. "I've also decided to request a three-day pass for next week. There are a few things I have to take care of in Tokyo."

My heart skipped a beat. Mulcahy didn't often ask for R&R. Could this mean he was finally going to take my advice and talk to someone? His brief nod when I caught his eye confirmed it. If the setting hadn't been wildly inappropriate, I would have jumped up and hugged him until he begged for mercy, but instead I expressed my approval by saying, "If Henry won't sign a pass, Father, you let us know and we'll take care of it." Not that the colonel was likely to deny the leave; I just wanted Mulcahy to know he had my full support.

It was obvious that last night's insanity had turned the tide. Which left me feeling secretly rather pleased with myself, but I tried to keep my ego in check by remembering that one night of bliss, no matter how special, was no miracle cure for anything. My friend still had a long road ahead of him.

And I intended to be there every step of the way.

END

© May 2002