Warnings: It's dark. Okay, maybe not pitch-black, slit-your-own-wrists dark, but a lot darker than I usually go. There is much unpleasantness, most notably blackmail and nonconsensual sex involving a priest. I do hope that's sufficient warning.

Notes: I would be remiss if I failed to acknowledge (and bow humbly before) Scribe's amazing fic "Return a Man: Radar and Ray," which can be found here. Her version of Flagg has admittedly influenced mine, but I've tried to avoid blatant plagiarism. :)

*** Much gratitude is also owed to Sparky, who's been providing the main inspiration, encouragement, and beta-reading for this twisted little fic. ***

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters that I do not own. 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.

by iolanthe (iolanthe@cais.com)

Hawkeye's face was poker-perfect as he studied me over the top of his cards, but I could tell I'd managed rattle him, if only slightly. BJ, Radar, and Colonel Potter had already folded, and the way I'd been playing, I'm sure he hadn't expected me to raise his outrageous bet. By an equally outrageous amount.

I like to surprise him every once in a while.

He continued to eye me as Klinger dropped out, too. "Too rich for this enlisted man's blood," Klinger groused amiably, abandoning his cards in favor of a bottle of beer.

So it was down to just Hawkeye and me. "You sure you're not getting any unauthorized help?" he asked with an upward flick of his eyes.

I chuckled. "I'm sure He has more important matters to attend to than my poker hand."

"All right, okay." Hawkeye added the appropriate amount to the pile of chips and scrip at the center of the table. "Show me."

"Four jacks," I said proudly, fanning the cards out for inspection.

This, the best natural hand of the evening thus far, drew appreciative whistles from the crowd. Colonel Potter even slapped me on the back. "Not bad, Padre."

But Hawkeye's broad grin warned me that the colonel's congratulations might be premature. "Not bad, but not good enough," he crowed. "Read 'em and weep."

"Oh, dear." I dutifully admired the straight flush of diamonds he was waving under my nose. "Take it, then. Well played, Hawkeye."

He reached out to rake in his winnings and receive his accolades. "Thank you, thank you, you've been a terrific audience. I do two shows a night and a weekend matinee."

I couldn't help but smile. Being near Hawkeye Pierce at his most exuberant never failed to raise my spirits, even when I was suffering a streak of luck as poor as tonight's. Unfortunately, that last hurrah had nearly emptied my pockets, and it was time to bow out. "Ah, well," I sighed, pushing back from the table. "Sorry, all, but if I don't stop now, there'll be nothing left for the orphans this month."

BJ glanced up from shuffling the deck. "You sure, Father? Your luck can only get better from here."

I patted his shoulder as I walked past. "Thanks, but I ought to turn in, anyway. Sunday services tomorrow." With a knowing wink at Hawkeye, I added, "I'm sure I'll see you all there, bright and early."

Everyone made the obligatory affirmative noises, but I knew better. It had become a bit of a running joke, the fact that my services were so sparsely attended. For the most part, I took it in stride, understanding that formal worship often fell by the wayside in a war zone -- and knowing how much it could hurt if I let myself take it personally.

Thus, with a light heart and a lighter wallet, I bid my friends goodnight and left the Officers' Club, never expecting to walk straight into a waking nightmare.

The night air was pleasant and warm, and I was enjoying the mind-fuzzing effects of several beers, so my pace was unhurried. I'd almost made it to my tent when a man stepped out of the shadows behind the nurses' tent and latched onto my upper arm. "Hold it right there, Mister Vatican," he hissed.

I knew who it was without needing to see his face. No one but Colonel Sam Flagg, alleged CIA operative and all-around loose cannon, had ever addressed me in that fashion. I froze obediently, though my heart was racing and every instinct was telling me to flee for the hills at the earliest opportunity.

"Got a few questions for you," Flagg went on. "Are you going to come along quietly, or do I have to get rough?"

"Colonel," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. "There's no need for this...cloak and dagger business. I'm perfectly willing to answer whatever questions you have."

"Good. Let's go." He tightened his grip on my arm and marched forward, steering me not toward my tent but toward Colonel Potter's office. I doubted the colonel even knew Flagg was here in camp, much less that his office was about to be used as an interrogation room.

We entered the outer office and Flagg dismissed the corpsman who was filling in at Radar's communications post. Apparently recognizing my escort, the boy was only too eager to make himself scarce.

At this point I was worried -- but not nearly as much as I should have been. I was familiar with Flagg's reputation as a crackpot, who imagined he saw communists lurking in every corner, but I hadn't had much direct, face-to-face interaction with him. The stories Hawkeye and others told of his previous visits to the 4077th painted him as more of a buffoon than anything else, so I was woefully unprepared for what was to come later.

He released me, indicating that I should go sit down in the colonel's office, and I did as I was told. Without even thinking about it, I chose a seat facing the front of the desk, as if this were an ordinary staff meeting, and laid my hat on the chair beside mine. After a few moments, Flagg came into the room and proceeded to block the swinging doors with one of the larger filing cabinets.

"Is that really necessary?"

"Quiet, you," he ordered. "I'll ask the questions."

"Of course."

Having thus guaranteed our privacy -- and cut off the main avenue of escape -- Flagg moved to face me, arms crossed and eyebrows drawn together in a forbidding glare. "All right, here's the deal. Whatever you've heard to the contrary, I work for the CIA. It's my job to identify and neutralize persons who pose a threat to the national security of the United States of America."

I nodded my understanding.

"And I'm here," he continued, pointing an accusatory finger, "to assess your threat potential."

"I'm a man of peace, Colonel. I pose no threat to anyone, much less to our national security."

He started to pace, his gait as smooth and graceful as a prowling jungle cat's. It was rather distracting, and I had to stop myself from turning my head to track his circuit around the room. "Oh, I'm sure that's what you'd like me to believe, but I know your type."

"I beg your pardon?"

"It's mighty convenient, isn't it, being a priest? People respect you on sight. They automatically trust you. It's the perfect cover."

Naturally, I was stung by the implication that my vocation might be a sham. "I can assure you, I didn't spend all those years in the seminary just to establish some kind of 'cover.'"

Somewhere behind me, Flagg stopped pacing, and I felt the sudden warmth of his breath on the back of my neck, sending a prickly tremor down my spine. "Ah, yes," he purred, lacing his voice with saccharine sweetness. "Let's talk about the seminary, shall we?"

Alarm bells were going off in my head. The way he'd said that.... He couldn't possibly know -- could he? "What about it?"

"I haven't come to this meeting unprepared, you see. I've done my...research." He placed a hand on my shoulder. Stroked me lightly with his thumb.

Dear God, he did know! "S-sorry, I don't quite follow...."

"Oh, I think you do. But, just in case, let me jog your memory with these three little words: Arthur. Thomas. Birkett."

Though I'd guessed what was coming, my chest tightened in a painful spasm at the sound of that name. Arthur Birkett -- at one time my closest friend, my dorm-mate, and, all too briefly, my lover. The only one I'd ever had, and Flagg had somehow exhumed him.

Now that he'd skewered me, he didn't hesitate to twist the knife. "Such a shame he didn't make it through to ordination. All those years, all that work for nothing.... Guilt can be a terrible thing, and you Catholics seem to have so much of it. But he's done well for himself, your Arthur -- did you know he's married now, with twin daughters? Two years old and cute as buttons." Here he paused, for what I assume was dramatic effect, then delivered the killing thrust. "Oh, yes -- and as luck would have it, he's also an officer in the U.S. Navy, serving right here in Korea. Small world, wouldn't you say?"

"What did you do to him?" I whispered, even as I dreaded the answer.

Flagg leaned in close, his lips brushing my ear. "Nothing I'm not going to do to you."

Oh, Arthur.... I swallowed hard, trying to set aside the ache of old wounds reopened. Trying not to imagine my old friend at the mercy of this man. "What is it you want from me?"

"Your cooperation. Like I said, I have to determine how much of a threat you are, and I must say it looks iffy so far -- a known homosexual, at risk for blackmail...."

My face grew hot with anger and shame. "That was years ago, before I took vows! My...preferences are entirely irrelevant now that I'm celibate."

"Ah." Another hand clamped down on my shoulder. "But are they? There's plenty of priests who play fast and loose with that vow. Who knows, maybe you've got a cozy arrangement with somebody right here in camp?"

"Wouldn't your 'research' have turned that up?" I couldn't keep the bitterness out of my tone.

Without warning, he shifted his hands to encircle my throat, applying light but definite pressure. "If I were you, pal, I wouldn't sass me. I have a low tolerance for sarcasm."

"My apologies," I said quickly, unnerved by the speed with which he alternated his tactics. "It won't happen again."

Placated, the mercurial Flagg switched gears once more and started to massage my neck and shoulders. I felt myself relax a fraction -- I was so seldom on the receiving end of that sort of contact -- but a wave of revulsion washed over me when I realized abruptly where this interrogation was heading.

Yes, I suppose I am a bit naive, not to have picked up on it sooner. In hindsight, he hadn't been overly subtle.

Flagg didn't really believe I was a security risk. Or maybe he did, but that wasn't the reason he was in camp tonight. He must have blundered across Arthur by accident, learned some interesting things about his past, and by extension about me, and now he was here to take advantage of the situation.

He was here to take me. Whether or not my consent was freely given was almost certainly immaterial.

The thought was appalling. Worse, if that was his true objective, there was little I could do to prevent him from achieving it. All he had to do was hold the safety of Arthur and his family, or any of my friends here in Korea, over my head. This was Flagg's game; he'd set the stakes, he'd stacked the deck, and, for good measure, he was holding every card.

"You're very tense," my opponent observed, his hands drifting lower down my back. "Are you scared of me...Francis?"

Sweet Mary, were we on a first-name basis now?

"Never mind, I know you are. But that's good -- you're quite right to be afraid."

Considering the circumstances, I would have questioned my sanity if I hadn't been afraid. But if fear was what Flagg wanted from me, wasn't I playing right into his hands? I didn't delude myself that I could best him in a physical confrontation -- though I liked to believe I had some small talent as a boxer, he'd had combat training and goodness knows what else. Plus, under his fatigues, he was probably armed to the teeth. But if I could put up enough resistance, become more trouble than I was worth, perhaps he might rethink his course of action.

So, after offering up a silent prayer for strength and guidance, I turned my focus inward to try to shore up the rising anger that simmered just beneath the fear, to shape it into something I might use against him.

Strangely calmer now that I'd adopted a less passive outlook, I dared to speak. "Did you have any more questions, Colonel, or am I free to go?"

His hands stilled, and he laughed. Short and harsh, but a genuine laugh. Hawkeye always joked that Flagg must have had his sense of humor surgically removed, but I could see now that it was merely pitch black. "All right, let's cut to the chase," he said, still amused. "Going by the background information I've got, you aren't half as innocent as you look, and you're not an idiot. I think you know what I'm here for, and since I haven't gotten it yet, no, you are not free to go."

"In that case, you may want to clarify exactly what it is you're here for. Just to make sure we're on the same page."

To my dismay, Flagg leaned down to rest his chin on my shoulder. Pressed his cheek against mine. His voice was as rough as his five o'clock shadow, and just as matter-of-fact. "I'm here to fuck you, Father Francis."

So much for clarification. I suppressed both a shudder and the powerful urge to punch him in the face. "And if I refuse?"

"Not an option. You can resist, but I wouldn't recommend it." A low chuckle. "Unless, of course, you like it painful."

Hearing him say such horrific things in that casual tone, it took a substantial effort of will not to be sick. But it was far better to keep him talking than let him move on to actions. "W-why me? What have I ever done to you?"

"It's nothing personal -- I take my opportunities where I find them. And Birkett practically handed you over on a platter...once I convinced him it would be in his best interests." Flagg cocked his head to catch my eye. "You know, I can see why you were all over that boy. He's still a damn fine piece of...."

"How dare you!" I shouted, indignant on Arthur's behalf and my own. It had been a long time since Arthur was a part of my heart, but to hear him -- and our relationship -- trivialized in that manner was intolerable. My self-control, already under strain, finally snapped and I shoved Flagg's head off my shoulder. Knocked off-balance, he almost fell.

It was a dangerous mistake. Faster than I could track him, Flagg was in front of me and five or six inches of serrated silver steel were poised to give me an emergency tracheotomy. He thrust the knife forward in a deliberate jab, not hard enough to draw blood but enough to ensure that he had my undivided attention. Then, never taking his eyes from mine, he traced a slow and purposeful path with the blade from my throat all the way down the front of my body, letting the knifepoint come to rest between my legs.

Staring into his dark, glittering eyes was like a glimpse into the pits of hell, and I doubted no longer that I had fallen into the hands of a madman -- a man fully capable of maiming or even killing a human being without a second thought or a moment's remorse. I don't think I've ever been more frightened in my life.

"Raise your voice to me again, mister," he said, arctic cool, "and you'll be singing your next 'Ave Maria' as a soprano." The corners of his mouth twitched upward. "Hell, maybe I should do it anyway. It's not like you're using 'em, right?"

I stayed quiet, certain that whatever I might say would be the wrong answer, but I couldn't look away from that infernal gaze. I would have prayed, but the words had deserted me.

We held our respective positions for what seemed an eternity before Flagg finally chose to back off and return the knife to its concealed sheath. Then he pointed at me, an odd, thoughtful expression on his face. "Mulcahy, you've got more guts than I gave you credit for."

I exhaled a long-held breath. If he'd mistaken terrified paralysis for bravery, I wasn't about to enlighten him.

"Your pal Birkett would've been crying for his mommy. And he's not the only one."

"Are you saying that was some kind of...test?"

"Oh, no, that was a warning. I'd advise you not to forget it." He was prowling the room again. I suppose a man that tightly wound has to either pace or explode. "Still, I don't see nerve like that every day, and when I do I respect it. Almost makes me regret the way this thing has to go."

"It doesn't have to go anywhere," I said, grasping at that slender thread of hope. "If you were to leave now, we could forget any of this ever happened. You have my word."

Pausing in front of me, he shook his head. "I will have what I came for."

So that was it -- there was no way out. I could neither reason with him nor physically overpower him. If I submitted without a fight, he would take me. If I stood up to him, he would respect me, but he'd still take me.

Flagg was at my back again. A sense of numbness started to encroach at the edges of my thoughts, like the surface of a pond beginning to freeze over in winter, and though the room was very warm, I couldn't seem to stop shivering.

"Stand up," he directed. "And take off that jacket."

I rose, despite a sudden weakness in my knees, and removed the specified garment, half-turning to drape it over the back of the chair.

"Now the shirt."

With considerable reluctance, I untucked my shirt and pulled it up over my head. Why he deemed it necessary for me to strip, I had no idea, but it was most disconcerting. I'd expected this liaison to be somewhat more...impersonal.

The little crucifix that I always wore seemed to weigh more heavily on my chest than usual -- as if it were a physical manifestation of all the fear and shame and guilt bearing down on me. My hand moved to cover it, but whether to hide it or draw strength from it I do not know.

In any event, my tormentor found it unacceptable. "Hands behind your back," he insisted.

I complied, crossing one wrist over the other. It wouldn't have surprised me to learn that handcuffs were part of Flagg's perversion, but, thankfully, that wasn't the case. Instead, I heard the scrape of the chair as it was shoved out of the way, then felt the damp heat of his palms on my skin.

Slowly, he turned me around. I tried not to let the fear show, tried to project defiance in the face of the inevitable, but I don't imagine I was very successful. When our eyes locked, I ventured one last appeal. "Please -- it's not too late. Please don't do this...."

His reply was to push down hard on my shoulders, forcing me to drop to one knee. Without the use of my arms for balance, it was an awkward landing, but I dared not protest. Instead I tucked the other leg underneath me, too, and sat back, head bowed in resignation.

But Flagg took me by the chin and compelled me to look up at him. "I'm sure you spend a lot of time on your knees, Father." His tone was harsher now. Mocking. "You should be used to it. Maybe you can say a prayer for me while you're down there."

A rush of helpless anger coursed through me. If a glare could kill, I'm afraid Sam Flagg would have breathed his last at that moment. "May God forgive you your sins, my son," I retorted. The familiar words tasted sour on my tongue -- one more thing for which to resent him.

"I'm long past forgiveness," he said seriously, with a hint of something that might have been regret. But if it was there, it was fleeting. "Well, what are you waiting for?"

I suppose I could have pretended not to understand what he meant, but that only would've delayed my fate. As I reached out to unbuckle his belt, the frosty numbness seeped a little further into my mind, and I welcomed it. The theory being that the less I allowed myself to feel during this ordeal, the better.

Yes, emotional detachment was the key. I had to make myself believe that what my body was doing had nothing at all to do with me. The hands that trembled as they unzipped Flagg's pants and lowered his shorts belonged to someone else. The fingers that curled around his hardening shaft and hesitantly stroked it were those of a stranger, not mine. I was but an observer, neutral and indifferent. The pretense was difficult to sustain, but it worked -- up to a point.

"Good," Flagg muttered. "Very good. Now get on with it." His hand alighted on the back of my head and urged me forward, leaving no doubt as to what he wanted.

It was here, as my lips parted and I took him into my mouth, that the illusion of detachment faltered and collapsed. This was too close, too immediate -- too personal. So reminiscent of the past, when Arthur and I would pleasure each other in this way out of love and of our own free will, and yet so cruelly different.

In desperation, I threw my mental gears into reverse. If I couldn't remove myself from the scene, I would have to remove my antagonist. Eyes tightly closed, I tried to draw on those memories of Arthur to help me imagine that it was him standing there instead of Flagg. Tried to picture his face smiling down at me, to hear his voice whispering encouragement and endearments, to feel his gentle touch on my cheek....

But so much time had passed since we'd been intimate -- since I'd even seen him -- that the memories were elusive at best. Not vivid enough to make me forget the overwhelming reality of Flagg's presence.

The human mind, however, can work in mysterious ways, and under duress mine produced a surprise that left me near-breathless with shock. The image of another face, not Flagg's or Arthur's, surfaced in my consciousness to superimpose itself on reality.

Hawkeye Pierce.

Astonished, I must have paused in whatever I was doing, because I soon felt Flagg's fingers twisting in my hair. "I didn't tell you to stop," he growled.

I resumed my efforts, but most of my attention was focused on this new development. What had brought Hawkeye, of all people, to mind? Of course he was a dear friend, and a good man, but my love for him was fraternal, not...romantic. Wasn't it?

The notion that it might not be was both thrilling and alarming.

But Flagg didn't allow me much time to ponder the matter. His guttural moans and the firm pressure of his hand on my head made it obvious that he was close to completion. I increased the intensity of my lingual caresses in the hope that, if I could finish him this way, he would leave satisfied and that would be the merciful end of it.

It proved to be a vain hope. At the brink, he let go of me and stepped away. "All right. Enough."

I sat back on my heels and dragged a hand across my mouth, barely resisting the impulse to spit at him. I doubted there was enough toothpaste in all of Asia for me to ever feel clean again.

"Sweet Jesus, you're good," he said roughly. "Better than Birkett. I bet you taught him everything he knows."

At that stage, I was too numb to react to his taunts. I just wanted this obscene travesty of lovemaking to be over and done with. As to what would happen after that, I didn't feel strong enough to speculate.

"Not talking, eh?" Flagg smirked. "Doesn't bother me. Everything I need to know, I can read on your face." He made a quick gesture with his index finger. "Get up."

I did so unsteadily, with an assist from the colonel's desk, and stood before him, awaiting further instructions. But he didn't issue an order right away; instead, he came closer and began to touch me, slowly running his hands over my bare chest, down my sides, and up my back. I shut my eyes, profoundly disturbed by the conflict between my feelings toward the toucher and the feelings that his touch was stirring within me.

Taking note of my stiff posture, Flagg whispered in my ear. "Word of advice, Mulcahy. If you don't relax, it's going to hurt a hell of a lot more."

"I'm touched by your concern." I snapped. The words were past my lips before I could stop them.

But despite his avowed distaste for sarcasm, he left the hunting knife in its sheath. "Look, whether you believe it or not, I don't get off on pain. Not that kind of pain."

I had my doubts about that, but I also had no interest in arguing the point.

Still moving slowly, he undid my belt buckle and zipper and bared my lower half. I gasped when he embraced me, aroused by the feel of another man's partly unclothed body in such close contact with mine. God forgive me, but it had been so long....

At first I fought against it, but then it occurred to me that, since there was no way to avoid what was coming, it might be wise to heed Flagg's advice and try to relax. Opting to fall back on the self-delusion strategy, I closed my eyes and thought of -- Arthur? No....

This time my thoughts went straight to Hawkeye. His face next to mine, his body thrusting against me, his hands on my rump -- not Flagg's. The fantasy was indecently inspiring, and I had to hold back a moan. After all, a moment's carnal pleasure didn't change the fact that this was a nonconsensual encounter, and the last thing I wanted was to give Flagg the wrong impression.

At any rate, he didn't let me savor it for long. Pulling away, he issued a new directive. "Clear off that desk."

I hesitated, reluctant to assist in setting the scene for my own violation.

"Let me put it another way," he said coldly. "If you don't do it, I will. And which one of us do you think will be more careful with your C.O.'s property?"

Persuaded, I turned and started to relocate items from the desk to the floor. There wasn't much to move -- the blotter, the lamp, the in-box and out-box.... Colonel Potter liked to keep a tidy desktop. I couldn't bring myself to look at the framed photograph of his wife, Mildred, as I tactfully placed it face-down atop the in-box.

As soon as everything was out of the way, Flagg was upon me. Swooping in unannounced from behind, he bent me forward over the desk and pinned me there for a moment with the weight of his body. That made breathing rather a challenge, but since it would have been useless to struggle, I didn't bother.

Evidently satisfied that I wasn't going to cause trouble, he eased off a bit. Nothing happened for a minute or two, making me wonder what he was waiting for, but soon enough I felt exploratory hands on my backside, felt his fingers probing me with unexpected gentleness. Also unexpected, those fingers proved to be slippery with some kind of artificial lubrication -- a small mercy, but one for which I was pathetically grateful.

Perhaps Flagg had been telling the truth when he claimed to have no interest in inflicting physical pain. His motivations, twisted as they surely were, might indeed lie elsewhere.

When he'd decided I was ready, he got into position and leaned over me, again resting much of his weight on my back. "You're going to want to fight me," he murmured. "Don't."

Not trusting my voice, I answered with a curt nod.

"One more thing -- you'd be smart to keep quiet. If you make enough noise to attract attention, I'll be forced to put a stop to it any way I can."

Visions of the possibilities implicit in that threat -- his hands tight around my throat, the reappearance of the hunting knife -- made me very agreeable.

But I did cry out on his first attempt to enter me. Though I tried not to resist, it had been a long time since I'd done anything like this, and these weren't exactly the most relaxing or comfortable of circumstances. Bracing myself against the desk for the next try, I bit down hard on my own clenched fist to forestall another outburst.

Flagg forged ahead undeterred, his motions careful but utterly relentless, until at last he was buried to the hilt and could advance no farther. There he rested for a moment. Dazed and trembling, I took my fist out of my mouth and stared dully at the stippled half-moon patterns of bite marks, several of which were oozing blood.

Now that he had me where he'd wanted me all along, I whispered a fervent prayer under my breath that he would please just hurry up and get it over with and leave me alone in my misery and wretchedness and disgrace and....

As if he'd heard me, he took hold of my hips and recommenced, alternating shallow thrusts with slower, deeper ones. Clinging to the edge of the desk, I tried to blank my mind. To preserve my sanity. To endure. Somewhere along the line, the pain, at first so raw and sharp, blessedly lost some of its sting.

Flagg seemed to be taking an inordinate amount of time, and my hopes for a quick resolution sank, along with my heart, when it dawned on me that he was deliberately dragging out the proceedings. I could hear a hitch in his breathing each time he neared the peak -- and that was precisely when he would slow down. As soon as he regained control, he would redouble his efforts and the cycle would begin again.

Dear God. This was never...going...to...end.

In a revelation of startling clarity, I understood then what it was that drove my tormentor, and it was more than a simple taste for sadism. Sam Flagg worshipped at the altar of control: Self-control, as exemplified by this protracted session. Control of information -- the ultimate ideal for an intelligence operative. And control of others, which doubtless included people under interrogation as well as unwilling sexual partners. Whether his means of achieving those ends were ethical, moral, or even legal obviously mattered little to him.

Worse luck for me. And for Arthur and God knows how many others.

Of course, it had to end sometime, if for no other reason than the risk of eventual discovery by anyone trying to enter the office. An indication that it was almost over came when Flagg bent forward, pressing himself against my back once more, and whispered some truly disgusting and blasphemous things to me, which I cannot bear to recall, much less repeat. For good measure, he also drew a few more mocking personal comparisons between myself and Arthur. But I refused to be baited, not wishing to reveal just how badly he'd wounded me over the course of this hellish night.

Then his breath caught again in the telltale hitch, but instead of easing off, this time he plunged forward harder. Faster. Heedless of anything but his own satisfaction. Since both hands were busy hanging onto the desk, I had to bite my lower lip to stifle the whimpering moans that threatened to escape. At long last, grunting and digging his fingers into my hips, he finished with a series of deep, forceful thrusts.

It was over. Or so I thought. For a while, he held his position, recovering, and I was struck with the sudden dread that he might be capable of a second round. Such a thing would be unusual for a man his age, but not unheard of. Fortunately, that fear, at least, was groundless; he withdrew shortly afterward and stepped back a pace.

"You can get up now," he informed me.

The only problem was, I couldn't. When I tried to straighten up, I discovered that my legs had turned to tapioca, and I was listing perilously....

Before I hit the floor, Flagg was there to catch me. Scooping me up in his arms with little apparent effort, my unlikely rescuer lifted me bodily and laid me out across the desk. I stared up at him, as confused as ever by his volatility and wondering why on earth he was still here, now that he'd gotten what he wanted.

I soon found out why -- he wasn't quite done with me yet. To my horror, he insinuated a hand between my legs and touched me there, rubbing gently but insistently. He had his work cut out for him; I couldn't remember ever feeling less...excitable. "No," I implored him. "Please don't...."

He was deaf to my pleas. Clearly this was a point of honor with him, and an integral part of his passion for control. But what would be the consequences if I honestly couldn't oblige?

That kind of thinking only made matters worse. During the entire ordeal, this was the closest I'd come to tears. Leaning on one elbow, looming overhead, Flagg regarded me with both curiosity and suspicion. "What's the trouble, Mulcahy? You can relax now. The hard part's over."

How little he understood. "Please. I'd rather you didn't...do that."

"Is this a guilt thing? Because I don't cater to guilt, Catholic or otherwise." A meaningful pause. "So you'd just better find a way to relax. Lie back and think of Birkett -- or whoever it is that stokes your fire these days."

I know I must have blushed when Hawkeye instantly sprang to mind. If I survived the night, I'd never be able to look that man in the eye again. But I had to concede that Flagg's suggestion was practical -- and if this was the only way I'd ever be rid of him, I had no choice but to attempt it. Eyes closed, I again let my thoughts escape into fantasy, picturing myself in Hawkeye's arms, happy and safe...and loved. For me, physical intimacy without emotional intimacy has no place either in life or in dreams. Besides, I wanted the scenario to be as far from current unloving reality as possible.

I tried to imagine what it would be like to kiss Hawkeye, to run my fingers through his silky black hair and my hands over every inch of his body. To hear his moans of pleasure and know that I was inspiring them. To melt under his touch as he held me close and whispered sweet words of devotion.

With my focus thus redirected, I felt myself starting to respond to Flagg's unwelcome attentions. "That's it," he encouraged. "Keep going."

As I was concentrating on blocking out his very existence, I barely heard him. If I allowed any reminder of his presence to taint the fantasy, we'd be back to square one. Thus, it was only Hawkeye who was arousing me, stroking me, driving me to distraction with consummate skill....

It worked better than I'd hoped. Once I'd managed to convince myself, it didn't take long at all to reach my peak and tumble down the other side, gasping and shuddering and spent. Of course, the illusion evaporated and cold reality came crashing back as soon as I opened my eyes to see Flagg leering down at me.

My humiliation was complete.

He was wiping his hands clean on a black cloth, which turned out to be my shirt. "Good boy," he smirked, as close to outright gloating as I'd yet seen him. "That wasn't so bad, now, was it?"

Torn between bursting into tears and wanting to gut him with his own knife, I could offer no response.

After he'd pulled up his pants and restored his uniform to order, he turned his attention back to me, again employing my shirt as a cleanup rag. "Someday you'll have to tell me who it was you were thinking about," he mused as he dabbed at me, "but I'm afraid it's time to leave you now. Wouldn't want to overstay my welcome."

...please oh God yes please just go....

"You do understand that what happened here stays between us? If you were to mention it to anyone else...well, let's just say that bad things can happen in wartime. To naval officers. M*A*S*H personnel. Even noncombatants."

It was the most straightforward threat he'd made, but I nodded compliantly. I would've agreed to almost anything to hasten his departure.

"Excellent. Then I'll say goodnight." He strode to the light switch and clicked it off, blanketing the room in blessed, healing darkness. "Until next time...Father."

And he was gone. I didn't see or hear him leave, but his absence was tangible.

For an unknowable span of time, I lay there sprawled across the colonel's desk in a state of near-catatonia, emotionally drained and hurting in both body and spirit. The darkness was almost total, and the silence was disturbed only by the sound of my own labored breaths. Now that I was alone, the tears that I longed to shed would not come.

I couldn't think. Not about the past and not, heaven forbid, about the future. I could only deal with the immediate present, taking note of each empty moment as it arrived and then again as it slipped away.

I couldn't pray. That would have required thought, as well as the contemplation of past and future.

I couldn't move. Not even to cover myself.

It felt similar to what I imagine death must be like. Yet the understanding was there, albeit from a vast mental distance, that time would eventually resume its normal flow, and I would have to get up, get dressed, and go on with my life. These things would happen. But I hadn't the strength, or the will, to restart the clock on my own.

At some point, I became aware of new sounds intruding upon the deathly silence, coming from the direction of the door. Raised voices...and the rough scrape of something heavy being moved across the floor.

The lights came on, and, as my eyes adjusted and refocused, I thought I saw an angel hovering above me -- an angel with Hawkeye Pierce's face. Overcoming the inertia that had paralyzed me, I reached up without thought to touch the angel's unshaven cheek.

He allowed the caress, until he caught sight of the bloody bite marks on my hand and captured it for examination. "My God," he whispered. "What happened?"

The words did not come easily. "...assaulted...," I managed.

Hawkeye's expression of concern darkened to one of outrage. "Radar!" he called over his shoulder. "Go get my medical bag from the Swamp."

From the outer office, I heard the clerk answer, "Yes, sir!"

Hawkeye turned back to me. "Where are you hurt? Who did this to you?"

"Hurts...everywhere." I attempted a smile. "I'll be all right."

Still clearly worried, he returned the smile. "You'd better let me be the judge of that, Doctor Father."

When Radar returned with the bag, my angel of mercy instructed him to stand watch outside the door and not let anyone else in, not even the colonel. Then he proceeded to examine me right there, treating the self-inflicted injuries with antiseptic and grimly noting the beginnings of bruises where I'd been bumped up against the desk and where Flagg's fingers had dug into my hips.

Hawkeye's explorations were gentle and respectful, and as he ran his hands over me, I recalled with bittersweet pangs of guilt how I'd fantasized about him touching me in quite a different context. Something else for which Flagg must bear responsibility -- had it not been for his actions, these inappropriate feelings toward my friend would have remained buried, where they belonged, and I wouldn't have to be panicking now about how to handle them.

Apologetically, and a bit awkwardly, Hawkeye helped me to turn over so he could finish the examination. I knew it was necessary, and he was very careful, but it was an uncomfortable few minutes nevertheless.

"Can you sit up?" he asked afterward.

I was still in no great hurry to rejoin the world, but I could handle sitting up. I even went so far as to stand, long enough to retrieve my pants from around my ankles and secure them in their proper configuration.

As I gingerly sat back down on the desk, Hawkeye pulled up a chair. "So. There's good news and bad news."

"The good news first," I decided.

"It could've been a lot worse. There's some tearing, some bleeding, but I don't think you'll need stitches." A flash of anger in his eyes. "At least the son of a bitch used lube."

"Hawkeye...."

"Sorry, Father," he said, an automatic apology for the language. But then he paused, searching my face, and spoke again with unguarded sincerity. "I really am sorry. Things like this shouldn't happen to anyone, but especially not to...."

"To a priest?" I finished softly.

"No. Well, yes, but I was going to say to you."

Touched, I could only smile at him. The obvious love behind his words -- platonic though I knew it must be -- was a balm to my aching heart.

We sat quiet for a moment, a warm, communicative silence, then I asked, "And the bad news?"

He sighed. "The bad news is that the deepest wounds in cases like this are the kind I can't fix. Your physical recovery will be quick, but...."

I held up a hand to interrupt him. "Please, I'd rather not think too far ahead right now."

"You should talk to Sidney," he insisted. "I'm calling him as soon as it gets to be a reasonable hour."

Dr. Sidney Freedman -- a good, decent man and a sharp poker player. Who also happened to be a psychiatrist. "I'll be fine, really. There's no need to bring him all the way out here for...."

"You should talk to him," he repeated adamantly.

"I'll...consider it."

Hawkeye dropped his gaze. "Sorry, the last thing I should be doing is trying to force you into anything. I just don't want you to suffer one second longer than you have to because of what that bastard did." Then his head snapped up, and his blue eyes bored into me with frightening intensity. "You never said. Who was it? Who did this?"

Now it was my turn to stare at the floor. "I can't say."

"What, you didn't see his face?"

"No, I know who he is, but I can't reveal his name."

Agitated, Hawkeye got to his feet. "What are you talking about? The guy has to be put away! If he ends up busting rocks in Leavenworth for the rest of his life, he'll be getting off too damn easy."

"You must understand -- this man is capable of getting away with far worse than what happened here tonight. If I report him, people I care about could get hurt."

"People I care about have already been hurt," he countered. "And if he's that dangerous, all the more reason to make sure he's locked away until he rots! How many more victims do you want to let him rack up?"

It was a strong argument, and it stung like holy fire. But my well-founded fear of Flagg and what he could do, both under and outside of the aegis of his intelligence work, had weakened my moral resolve.

"Look, do I know the guy? Is it someone in camp?"

With a sigh, I yielded up that minimal information, knowing full well there was a chance it was enough to identify the culprit. "Yes, you know him. No, he's not posted here, but he's been here several times before. And I shouldn't have told you even that much."

He was silent for a while, frowning. No doubt formulating a list of our mutual acquaintances in Korea who might have sociopathic tendencies and the power to exercise them freely.

It was a short list. "Is he an officer?"

"Hawkeye, please don't...."

But his certainty and his wrath were growing. "A colonel, maybe? In so-called intelligence?"

With marginal success, I tried to blink back the tears that were finally, inexplicably ready for their debut. "I -- I can't...."

The next instant, I found myself enfolded in my friend's arms, comforted but also acutely conscious of my half-clothed state. "Oh, God," he breathed. "Sam Flagg is a dead man. I swear, I'll kill him with my bare hands if I have to."

It was disturbing, even shocking, to hear him express intentions so contrary to his pacifist nature. Hawkeye loathed killing -- loathed the violence of war, the effects of which he saw and touched and struggled to repair nearly every day. For him to speak of purposely ending a man's life, even in hyperbolic terms, was unusual, to say the least.

"I...appreciate the sentiment," I told him, "but meeting violence with more violence can hardly improve the situation. And you mustn't put yourself in danger -- he would kill you first."

Hawkeye drew back and fixed me with a deadly serious look. "He won't get away with this, I promise you."

My angel of mercy had just sworn to become an avenging angel. Part of me was overwhelmed with joy that he would volunteer to take up the metaphorical sword as my defender and champion, but the more rational part of me was terrified for him. For both of us. Flagg had shown himself to be a more formidable opponent than anyone suspected -- one who played a dangerous game at which he had a great deal of experience. Even two against one, we hardly seemed a competitive match for him.

Claiming exhaustion, which in no way stretched the truth, I persuaded Hawkeye to hold off on taking action until we could discuss the matter further. I also asked that the sordid details of the assault be kept confidential, between doctor and patient, and he readily agreed. But in turn, he convinced me to let him report the incident to the colonel, leaving out the specifics as well as Flagg's name, so there would at least be some record of it, however vague, if I later chose to press charges.

Had he been the only witness, I would have begged him not to report it at all, but of course he was not. Radar knew something serious had happened; Hawkeye confirmed that the poor lad had seen me laid out on the desk. On his way to bed after the poker game -- he bunked in that outer office -- Radar was the one who had noticed that the doors were blocked, and he'd run to fetch Hawkeye to help him investigate.

Before leaving, Hawkeye and I set the colonel's office to rights, and I gathered up the rest of my clothing. When we emerged from the office, Radar was waiting there, still guarding the doors. A blush rose on his cheeks when he saw me. "A-are you gonna be okay, Father?"

I smiled warmly, hoping to ease his concern and embarrassment. "I'll be all right, Radar. Thank you for your help."

"I was really scared," he admitted. "For a minute there it looked like you were...dead."

"Fortunately, it wasn't as bad as it looked." I laid a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "I'll be back in the pink very soon."

Hawkeye interceded then, taking Radar aside for a quiet word. It was a wise precaution, considering the likelihood that the boy, with his talent for overhearing things he shouldn't, had learned much of the truth standing outside those doors. If that was the case, I prayed that Hawkeye could make him see the importance of keeping certain facts to himself.

After saying goodnight to Radar, we went outside. The fresh air was exhilarating after being closeted and under stress for so many hours, and I breathed in both the air and the freedom gratefully. By some unspoken agreement, Hawkeye ended up accompanying me to my tent. "So, sleep now?" he asked.

"I plan to sleep, yes, but I was considering a shower first."

He nodded, understanding. "Go get your stuff, then."

"Hawkeye, there's no need to...."

"I'll be right here."

Too tired to argue with him, I went inside to change into my bathrobe and gather the necessary items. As promised, he was still there when I came out, and we walked together to the showers.

"Will you be coming in to scrub my back for me?" I asked, outwardly teasing but inwardly half-hopeful.

"I would, but that costs extra," he deadpanned. "You should see the bill you're getting already."

"They say charity is a virtue, you know."

"They also say cleanliness is next to Godliness, so you'd better hurry up and get in there." He winked as he held the door open for me, and, despite my low spirits, I had to laugh. It felt good, and it made me wonder whether a dozen therapy sessions with Sidney would be half as efficacious as a few doses of Hawkeye's wit.

Standing under the lukewarm spray of water, scrubbing away the invisible lingering traces of Flagg's touch until my skin was almost raw, also felt surprisingly good. I took my time, turning an ordinary shower into a sort of ritual cleansing, and by the time I was finished, I'd convinced myself that everything was going to be just fine. That tonight's incident was merely a bump in life's road -- jarring, to be sure, but momentary and soon relegated to the rearview mirror.

If only it were that simple.

At any rate, I left the shower tent in a more peaceful frame of mind. Hawkeye, of course, was there to escort me home. "Feeling better, Father?"

"Very much so," I confirmed with a chuckle. "The water was actually verging on tepid, for a change."

He lowered his voice. "Are you in any pain? I can give you something, if you need it."

"A bit of discomfort," I answered truthfully. "But I'll be fine. Thank you."

We stopped outside the door to my tent, and he turned to face me. "You keep saying you'll be fine, so why am I not convinced?"

Glancing up at him, I was shaken by the depth of concern in his expression. It was as if he understood things that I didn't fully comprehend -- that perhaps I was refusing to see. "I'm sorry. I'm not trying to be evasive. I just...don't think it's really hit me yet."

A sympathetic smile showed that he knew what I meant. "Well, when it does, you don't have to deal with it alone. I'll be here."

My angel of mercy.... "Thank you, Hawkeye. I mean, for everything."

For a moment, when I opened the door, I got the distinct impression that he would've liked to follow me inside, to stand watch over me as I slept. But if that was the case, he thought the better of it. "You're welcome, for everything. Goodnight, Father." Then, head bowed and hands buried deep in his pockets, he wandered off in the direction of the Swamp.

"Goodnight," I whispered after him. "And may God bless you."

TBC...

© February 2003.