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Summary: Will he stay or will he go?

Feedback: Yes, please. Constructive crit is welcomed and appreciated.

Archive: The mash-slash archive, when it's resurrected. Anywhere else, please ask.

Warnings: It's quite talky. And quite sappy (no surprise there). Also, it should go without saying that you ought not bother reading this fic if the concept of slash involving a Catholic priest disturbs you.

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters that I do not own -- I'm just granting them a little unauthorized R&R. Also, it was written for my own fannish amusement and I am not profiting financially from it in any way. So there's no need to get anyone's lawyers in a lather.

*** Heaps of gratitude go to Sparky, who pulled beta-reading duty for this one and refused to let me get away with writing maudlin!Hawkeye. :) ***

by iolanthe <iolanthe@cais.com>

It's a well-known fact that a tray full of army food is not the best way to start one's day. Starting the day at around dinnertime is also somewhat less than ideal. So that was two strikes against Trapper and me right off the bat.

At least we'd been lucky in one sense -- no casualties had come in that day, making it possible for us to catch up on some much-needed sack time. I was still feeling run-down, even after being dead to the world for so many hours, but the nap had taken the edge off my exhaustion.

Both Trapper and I were atypically quiet as we moved through the chow line. I had a lot on my mind, and I'm sure he did, too, about what happened last night and whether or not it should've happened in the first place.

See, last night I took advantage of a friend. Sexual advantage, if you want to be blunt about it. Trap was also involved, as was a certain amount of booze, but the responsibility and the blame are all mine. And though the experience was incredible and wonderful and any number of other happy adjectives while it was going on, an overdue wave of "morning-after" guilt was making its presence felt.

Did I mention that this friend is a priest?

Yeah.

Anyway, having collected our so-called food and a mug of lukewarm coffee apiece, Trap and I surveyed the mess tent for a place to sit. We quickly found one, parking ourselves on an empty bench across the table from Radar, our unit's company clerk. True to form, the kid had loaded his tray with enough food to choke a platoon of marines, but, unusual for him, he hadn't made much of a dent in it.

"Uh oh, Hawk," Trapper teased. "Dinner's so bad even Radar won't touch it."

Radar paused in his idle fork-poking long enough to scowl at us. "Cut it out, you guys. I'm not real hungry, is all."

Not hungry? And irritable on top of that? This was not the Radar we all knew and loved. "Hey, you okay?" I asked. "Feeling sick?"

His expression relaxed, shifting from irritation to something more like concern. "No, nothing like that. It's just...." He trailed off.

"What?" Trapper prompted.

"Well, something weird is going on around here."

I grinned at him and made an expansive arm gesture. "Radar, this is the army. There's always something weird going on."

He didn't seem to appreciate my astute observation. "Yeah, but at least I always know what it is! Not this time."

"Then what makes you think something's wrong?"

"I can sense it," he said seriously. "That, and something happened today that I never saw coming."

"Jeez, Radar, will ya tell us already?" No, Trapper's not known for his patience.

Radar looked to the left, then the right, then leaned in closer to stage-whisper his presumably confidential news across the table. "Father Mulcahy asked for a transfer!"

Oh, God. I think my heart stopped beating for a good twenty seconds before I turned to exchange brief but meaningful glances with Trap. A transfer....

What had I done?

Desperate to invalidate his statement, I rounded on Radar. "Are you sure about this? You didn't just mishear a conversation? Sometimes you...."

"I filled out the paperwork myself," he said, sounding a bit insulted. "He wants it put through right away. Boy, Colonel Blake's real unhappy about it, too."

Damn it to hell, it was true. "Did he say why he's leaving?"

"Not to me. The colonel told me it's for 'personal reasons,' and I don't think he knows any more than that, either. But it's gotta be something serious -- Father Mulcahy's been here longer than almost anybody!"

"You saw him, right? Was he upset? Angry?"

Radar shook his head, frowning as he remembered. "He looked sad, mostly. And kinda rough, like he hadn't slept too good."

Damn again. Even without that last knife twist, my course of action was never in doubt -- I had to find Mulcahy ASAP and talk some sense into him. "Okay. All right. Have you sent off the paperwork yet?"

"No, it still needs the colonel's signature. He's been putting it off all afternoon."

"Radar, if you ever want to borrow my lingerie catalogues again, you'll put a hold on that transfer as of right now."

His eyes widened to an almost comical degree. "But I can't...."

"Oh, no -- I know you, and I know you can. Help me buy some time to fix this, okay? Please?"

"You can fix this, sir?" he asked, clearly dubious.

Pushing away my untouched meal, I rose from the table. "Well, I'm about to give it the old college try."

"Good luck, Hawk," offered Trapper. His steady gaze conveyed understanding and encouragement without his having to say anything else.

Radar nodded. "From me, too. Tell him we'd all really miss him."

On my way out the door, the only thought in my head was that I was going to need all the luck they could spare. I had no idea how to convince Mulcahy to stay. Did I even have the right to ask that of him? To take such a dramatic step, he had to be pretty upset -- and I was well aware of whose fault that was.

My best guess was that he'd be hiding out in his tent, so that was the first place I checked, but my knock went unanswered. I came up with a short list of other places he might be, but fortunately some suspicious instinct convinced me to knock once more before looking elsewhere.

Second time was the charm. "Ah...who is it?"

"It's me."

There was a near-interminable pause before the door eased open a crack, far enough for me to verify what Radar had reported -- Mulcahy looked like he hadn't slept in a week. His face was ashen, which only emphasized the telltale dark smudges under his eyes, and those normally twinkling blue eyes were dull and shot through with red.

"I'm afraid I'm rather busy...."

Of course I interrupted him, having no intention of accepting a brush-off, no matter how politely phrased. Time was a factor here. "May I come in, please, Father? Unless you'd prefer to discuss this through the door at a high volume."

We both knew a choice like that was no choice at all, and without further protest, he stepped back to allow me entry. Once inside, two things struck me as I glanced around the room that had been the setting for our close personal encounter less than twenty-four hours earlier. First and foremost was the change in decor: it hadn't exactly been flashy before, but now it was prison-cell Spartan. While I was sleeping off last night's indulgences, he must have been busy packing up everything he owned in preparation for that damn transfer.

The second thing was less startling, but it still set off psychological alarm bells. Instead of his everyday khakis, Mulcahy had on a Roman collar and cassock -- your basic chin-to-floor priest armor. As a reminder to himself? A rebuke? Or did he simply find it comforting, like a full-length security blanket? I suspected this might not be the right moment to ask.

"Going somewhere?" I asked, keeping my tone light.

He sighed. "You've heard, I assume."

"Word travels fast. So when were you going to tell me, or were you planning to slip away under cover of darkness?"

I'd scored a hit; his discomfort in answering the question made that obvious. "I -- I wouldn't have left without saying goodbye."

"You weren't going to tell me until it was official, were you? Until it was too late."

Visibly shaky now, Mulcahy reached for one of the collapsible chairs and sat down. "No," he admitted. "I wasn't. I thought you might try to dissuade me."

Damn right I would, I mentally shouted, though I tried not to let my irritation show. He was in enough distress already, and the goal here was to make things better between us, not worse. I claimed the other chair and sat opposite him, anticipating that this conversation would be neither short nor easy. "Why? Why are you so anxious to go?"

"I can't stay, Hawkeye." I heard his voice quaver on my name, though he quickly steadied it. "I don't want to leave, but under the circumstances, I have no other choice."

"But there are other choices." I helpfully ticked them off on my fingertips. "You could choose to continue our friendship as it was before. You could choose to ignore me for the rest of the war. You could choose not to run the hell away without even trying to work this out."

"You don't understand." Mulcahy, his hands clutched together in his lap as if in supplication, fixed me with a look that was painful in its intensity. "I want something -- someone -- that I can never have. And now I've had a...a taste of what can never be. To live with that temptation every day, to be in the constant presence of the person I so shamefully desire...." He hesitated a moment, then whispered, "I would be lost."

As it always did, his heartfelt candor resonated with me, letting me feel for myself some of the anguish he must be going through -- anguish for which I held myself primarily responsible. Still I clung to the hope that there was another way to solve this problem. Some less drastic alternative to his sudden and complete excision from my life. "This person you want -- you're sure you can't have him?"

With raised eyebrows and a rueful smile, Mulcahy tapped the base of his throat, as though I might have forgotten the significance of that stiff white collar. "Even if I were free to try," he added, "this person...doesn't feel for me as I do for him."

He had a point there, though I didn't see it as insurmountable. Of course I cared about him as a friend, and, for me, the physical closeness we'd shared had only strengthened that fraternal bond. But Mulcahy had me at a disadvantage: his deeper feelings, though unacknowledged and successfully stifled until last night, had existed for God knows how long, while mine had only had a day to germinate. It would take time for them to develop into anything serious -- if that was even in the cards.

But first things first. One obstacle at a time. "You know," I said carefully, "I've heard there are men who leave the priesthood and live to tell the tale."

This drew a chuckle from him, genuine amusement edged with something darker. Bittersweet. "Would you be shocked to hear that I'd considered it?"

Actually, yes, in spite of the fact that I'd been the one to bring it up. The truth was that I had a hard time picturing Mulcahy as anything but a priest. And I told him so.

"Believe me, Hawkeye," he said with quiet force, "I considered every alternative before requesting that transfer. But leaving the priesthood would create more problems than it would solve."

"How so?"

"Well...this is going to sound hopelessly banal, but 'priest' is more than just my job title -- it's who I am." He laid a hand on his chest, over the silver crucifix that always rested there. "On the subject of my vocation, I'm afraid what's in my heart doesn't always translate well into words. Suffice it to say that, like you, I find it hard to imagine myself as anything else.

"As a more practical matter, if I did decide to leave, that would be the end of my chaplaincy as well. What would I do then -- volunteer as a corpsman? Return to Philadelphia and try to explain it to my sister? Go wait for this person back in his hometown?"

"I see what you mean," I mumbled, half to myself. The problems were definitely coming into focus now. 'Uh...Dad, this is Francis. He followed me home from the war -- can I keep him?' Oh, no, that wouldn't be too awkward....

But Mulcahy wasn't quite finished. "And to be with this person in good conscience, I'd have to forsake more than my vocation." He dropped his gaze and lowered his voice to a near-whisper. "I'm sure you're aware that loving someone of the same sex is a sin for all Catholics."

Well, that settled it. What would it say about me if I stood by and let the man abandon his calling, his faith -- hell, his entire identity -- on the slim chance that we might someday have a life together? "Okay," I conceded. "You're right. Bad idea."

We both fell silent as I taxed my creativity to its limits searching for some possibility he hadn't already thought of. Finally, in frustration, I chose to toss one in out of left field. "What if you stay and I take the transfer?"

A little snort of humorless laughter. "Now you're being ridiculous."

"What's so ridiculous? Same result."

"For one thing, Colonel Blake would never agree to it. Nor should he!" Mulcahy straightened in his chair, warming to the subject. "You may not realize this, Hawkeye, but I see it every day -- you're not just the chief surgeon here, you're the heart and soul of this hospital. In a very real sense, you hold us all together."

Though I didn't entirely agree with that assessment -- I don't think I could've functioned under the pressure if I did -- his sincerity was touching. But I persisted in challenging him. "You said 'us,'" I pointed out. "You can't deny you're a part of this place, too."

"Not in the same way," he said softly.

I sighed, having heard variations on this theme before. Mulcahy underestimating his value to the unit was about as shocking as the sun rising in the east. "Do you really think you're that expendable? Forget about me for a second -- what about your other friends here? All the people who care about you? You've got Radar so thrown, he could hardly eat dinner.

"And what about the patients? The ones who need the kind of help doctors and nurses can't give them? Chaplains aren't exactly thick on the ground over here, you know, and there's no guarantee they'll send us a replacement. And even if they do...even if they send us the Pope himself, he'd never be able to 'replace' you, Father."

Tight-lipped, he didn't respond aloud, but I could read on his face the effect of my extempore tribute. Saw his hand move to brush furtively at the corner of one eye.

"Stay," I pleaded, seizing on that moment of vulnerability. "I promise, I'll do whatever it takes to make it easier for you -- no teasing, no tempting, no late-night visits to your tent. I won't let you lose yourself."

Mulcahy's hands had become restless in his lap, twisting inward upon each other until I feared for the safety of his interphalangeal joints. "But I don't.... How can I...?"

He was close to relenting, I could tell, but whether he could bring himself to do it right then, under pressure, was a different question. So, in a calculated shift of tactics, I brought my palms down on my knees with a loud slap, breaking some of the tension and diverting him from trying to knot his fingers together. "You know what? I see the problem here -- you're tired. You're overwrought. There's no way you should be making this kind of major decision right now. Why don't you sleep on it first?"

"I'm almost...afraid to try." He slanted me an embarrassed glance. "What if I dream?"

"If you do, they'll be real dreams. Safe. Not like...." Caught off-guard by a sudden spasm of guilt, I buried my face in my hands. "Not like last night. Oh, God, what the hell was I thinking? I am so, so sorry -- this is all my fault...."

In a swift, soundless swirl of black, Mulcahy was at my side, his hand resting on my shoulder. Even now, in his own torment, he was quick to answer the call of another soul in need of comfort. "Please, Hawkeye, you mustn't blame yourself! The fault, the weakness, lies with me. I wanted it to happen." He took a shaky breath before continuing. "It was inexcusably selfish of me to confess my...regard for you."

I understood what he was saying, but somehow it didn't do much to diminish the guilty certainty that I'd taken advantage of my innocent -- or at least less-worldly -- friend. As if seeking absolution, I found myself drawn toward him, unthinkingly leaning into his hip and the reassuring shelter of his touch.

After a brief but noticeable hesitation, Mulcahy took me in, his free hand coming up to brush through my hair in gentle strokes -- conveying with each caress things that could never have found adequate expression in words.

We stayed like that for a long time, striking a classic pose of priest and penitent. (Where's Michelangelo when you need him?) But as twilight faded into darkness outside the tent's plastic windows, I reluctantly returned to reality and verticality. He let go of me with similar reluctance, arms settling awkwardly against his sides as if deprived of their life's purpose.

Resolute, I stood and faced him. Even in the low-wattage glow of the desk lamp, his pale exhaustion was obvious. "Father, would you do something for me?"

"You know I'll do whatever you ask of me...if I can." His voice was thick with inadequately suppressed emotion, and both the soft tone and the words themselves echoed something he'd said to me last night under very different circumstances. It stung, but I couldn't tell whether it was meant as a deliberate barb or just an honest statement of fact, and I wasn't about to ask.

"Wait here. I'll be right back."

"Where are you...?"

"Please, just let me in when I get back."

As soon as he gave his assent, I was out the door, moving toward post-op at a fast clip. The nurse on duty -- Bigelow, this shift -- was very cooperative when I told her what I needed and why. Pity she hadn't been as cooperative on some of our past dates, but then I guess you can't have everything.

Or everyone.

Because I was now bearing a cup full of liquid, the return trip was less speedy. But when I knocked on the door, Mulcahy let me in, as promised.

"What's that?" he asked, eyeing the cup.

"That," I explained as I passed it over to him, "is what we doctors like to call 'water.' Hold out your other hand."

He did so, and I dropped two small white pills in the center of his palm. "And those are to help you sleep. Trust me -- two of those, and even if you have dreams, you won't remember 'em."

"Is this necessary?"

"I don't know. Maybe not. But I do know you need rest, and right now I don't think you're going to let yourself rest without a little help."

Mulcahy searched my face for a moment, uncertain, before he brought the pills to his lips in a decisive motion.

"They work fast," I warned him, "especially on an empty stomach. I'm assuming you haven't eaten today, either?"

He polished off the water and set the cup aside. "You assume correctly, I'm afraid."

"Then you'd better hurry up and get ready for bed, unless you want to sleep in your fancy clothes."

Mulcahy glanced down at himself and chuckled. "Oh, you noticed?"

I nodded, solemn. "Very nice. It suits you."

To judge by the warm smile I got in return, he'd taken the compliment exactly as I meant it. "The collar's no trouble," he noted, deftly removing that piece. "But the rest of it's not so easy to get out of -- or into, for that matter." Starting at the top, he set to work unfastening the row of tiny black buttons that bisected the front of the cassock.

About nine or ten buttons into the process, his fingers were already fumbling; the sedative had begun to kick in. "Let me help you with that," I offered. "I promise, no funny business."

He looked up, eyes heavy-lidded and unfocused. "A-all right. Thank you."

"You weren't kidding, it's not so easy," I remarked as I made slow but steady progress down the row. The wry thought crossed my mind that it might have been better for all concerned if he'd been dressed like this last night -- drunk, I never would've made it past the button barrier. "How many of these things are there, anyway?"

"S'posed to be thir'y-three," he mumbled, clearly fighting to stay awake. "One f'r each year 'f Christ's life on earth."

"Ah, I see. A masterful triumph of symbolism over convenience." By the time I crouched down to reach the lowest tier of buttons, Mulcahy had to put his hands on my shoulders to steady himself.

"S-sorry. Th' pills...do work fast."

"No problem. Almost done.... There!" At last, the thirty-third button yielded to my clever surgeon's fingers and I helped Mulcahy out of his self-imposed confinement. I'll admit to having a passing curiosity about what priests wore under those robes, but, unsurprisingly, the reality wasn't as racy as the fantasy -- in this case it was black pants and a regulation army tee-shirt.

In full mother-hen mode now, I guided my charge to his bunk and sat him down on the edge of it so I could get his pants and shoes off. Last to be removed were his glasses, which I set aside in a safe spot, and when I gave him the OK to do so, he fell over sideways with a grateful sigh.

I thought he'd be out cold before his head hit the pillow, but as I was arranging the blankets to cover him, I heard a soft, "Hawkeye?"

"Yeah?"

"Stay...f'r a while?"

"Sure." I didn't bother to argue that he'd soon be completely beyond appreciating my presence or absence. Hell, in a few minutes, a brigade of North Korean soldiers could come marching through the chaplain's tent and he'd never know about it. Instead, soft touch that I am, I dragged a chair over to his bedside and sat down.

From under the covers, his hand reached out blindly and I captured it in both of mine.

The faintest of whispers: "I wish...."

"Shhh...I know. I wish, too."

A breath or two later, Mulcahy was sound asleep, if the snoring was any indication. So I tucked his arm under the blankets and settled back in the chair -- after all, I had sort of promised to stick around.

Since there wasn't much else going on to occupy my mind, for a while I just watched him sleep. After the tensions of the past twenty-four hours, it was nice to see him so peaceful and relaxed, his emotional burdens temporarily lifted.

At the same time, though, it hurt to remember that I was the root cause of those burdens. Yeah, I know -- he'd be the first to tell me not to blame myself. To point out that he broke his vows of his own free will. To remind me that he was leaving the 4077th because he feared his own weakness and not because of anything I'd done.

But, as they say, it takes two to tango. Took three last night.

Lost in a quagmire of regret and self-reproach, I didn't realize that I'd drifted off until a knock at the door brought my head up sharply. I rubbed the back of my neck, ruling out whiplash, as I walked over to find out who was responsible for my rude awakening.

It was Radar, slightly more fidgety than usual. "Oh, good, you're here," he blurted. "Cap'n McIntyre said you'd be here, and...here you are."

"We've established that I'm here, Radar, yes. Now, what did you want me for?"

"I'm real sorry to bother you, sir, but we just got word to expect a lot of casualties. First ones are fifteen minutes out, and it's gonna be a long night."

Damn. "All right, I'll be right there."

"Uh...Hawkeye?"

"Yeah?"

The clerk gestured past me toward Mulcahy, who snored on in blissful oblivion. "Is he gonna stay?"

"Don't know yet. But I'm still working on it."

"Oh. Okay."

With a last fond glance at Sleeping Beauty, I stepped outside to join Radar, letting the door swing shut behind me. "Let's not wake him, though. He's going to sit this one out."

* * * * *

Radar spoke the truth; the session turned out to be a long night and then an even longer day. Hours after it started -- I don't want to guess how many, but darkness had fallen again -- the cascade of wounded flowing through the OR doors finally slowed to a trickle.

You can imagine the general mood in the room at that point -- supplies and tempers were short, nerves were frayed, but underneath it all there was a glimmer of hope that the end was drawing near if we could all just hold out...a little...longer.

Into this volatile atmosphere ventured a timid but welcome presence, tying a mask over his face and looking much improved from the last time I'd seen him.

Colonel Blake spotted him first. "Well, Father, glad you could join us," he sniped, tired and cranky and unfortunately taking it out on the nearest easy target.

"I apologize for my absence, Colonel. I wasn't feeling well...."

"Oh, no problem. We managed just fine without you."

Ouch. Even from across the room, I felt Mulcahy flinch. Had Blake taken the transfer request that personally? "Henry...," I began, a note of warning in my tone.

"What, Pierce?"

"Isn't running this hospital a team effort? You don't want anybody to start thinking we don't need 'em around, do you?"

Blake's eyes met mine long enough to read my message loud and clear. Then: "Sorry, Father. That was out of line. I guess that...uh...issue we discussed earlier still has me kinda off-kilter."

"Quite all right, sir, I understand." Drawing closer to the colonel's side, Mulcahy lowered his voice so I had to strain to hear it. "In fact, I came in here to address that very issue. I...I've reconsidered."

That brought Blake up short; he almost dropped the clamp he was holding. (My own reaction was pretty much the same.) "Yeah?"

"If you'll still have me."

"Well, of course!" The change in Blake's demeanor was dramatic -- up several notches on the happiness scale. I guess he really had taken it personally. "I didn't mean what I said before. I mean, we could get along without you, maybe, y'know, if we had to -- but we'd all be the poorer for it."

I could tell from his eyes that Mulcahy was smiling under his mask. "Thank you, sir. I'm sorry for the trouble I've caused over this."

"'s all right. Just don't ever scare me like that again."

After asking Nurse Bayliss to close for me, I caught Mulcahy's eye and motioned for him to meet me outside. There were no more critically wounded cases waiting, and I was overdue for a break, so no one voiced any objection.

We stood in silence for a while outside post-op, side by side. Careful to stare out across the compound instead of at each other. Eventually, though, one of us had to say something, and it ended up being me.

"So, you're gonna stick around for a while, then?"

"Yes," he said quietly, looking down at the ground and scuffing at it with the toe of his boot. "I want to thank you for the things you said last night...and the things you did. And I hope.... I hope this unfortunate situation hasn't ruined our friendship."

"If we play our cards right, and stick to the rules, I think it can strengthen our friendship."

"Yes." A wistful sigh. "The rules."

"I'm sorry, Father. I know this hasn't been easy for you."

He cast a sidelong glance at me before refocusing on the dirt. "The truth is, Hawkeye...I have chosen the easier path. It would have been far more difficult to leave."

I could almost hear the unspoken coda to that last sentence -- and never see you again -- and something inside my chest tightened uncomfortably.

Picking a scrapyard of shrapnel out of a kid's gut? I can do that with one hand tied behind my back. Assembling a dozen soldiers out of an ambulance-load of body parts? Piece of cake. Leaping tall buildings at a single bound? Give me a little time, I'll work on it. But in all my years of medical training and surgical practice, I've never learned how to heal a broken heart.

"Hawkeye?" Mulcahy had turned to look at me, quizzical concern in his eyes. I guess I'd been quiet too long.

Instead of searching for words I knew would come out sounding hackneyed, I delivered my response in physical form, taking hold of his shoulders and pulling him into a brief embrace. All strictly innocent and aboveboard, I assure you.

He accepted it in the spirit in which it was given, and if maybe he held me a little too tight...well, I understood why. When we drew apart, he had a warm smile for me.

"You okay?"

He nodded.

"Are we okay?" I asked, gesturing in the air between us.

"I think we will be."

"Good. I'm...uh.... I'm glad you're staying."

"So am I." Still smiling, he turned to leave. "Goodnight, Hawkeye."

"'night, Father."

As I watched him go, making his solitary way back to his tent, I wondered (not for the first time) what it was that Mulcahy saw in me, anyway. Self-declared agnostic, borderline alcoholic, notorious libertine -- I indulged freely in almost every evil his faith condemned. My nurse-chasing exploits alone could've provided object lessons for a year's worth of Sunday sermons.

But I guess the Lord really does work in mysterious ways.

So does love.

END

© February 2003.