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)

Three hours.

After my blithe declaration that I'd be just fine, three hours of dreamless sleep was all the respite I got before the nightmares woke me and I sat bolt upright in bed, shaking like a leaf and bathed in cold sweat. Mercifully, perhaps, I couldn't remember details; only an overwhelming sense of dread remained. But it was enough to deter me from even trying to go back to sleep.

I had to take a moment to wrestle with and subdue my initial instinct, which was to run straight to the Swamp...and Hawkeye. Completely inappropriate -- not to mention inconsiderate, since he was likely asleep himself. Instead, I went to my desk and opened up the Bible, hoping to find solace in the word of God, as I should, rather than the arms of man.

But my mind refused to focus. When I realized I'd been staring at the same verse for the better part of a quarter hour without comprehending it, I gave up, burying my face in my hands in quiet despair.

Thus, in those early morning hours, unable to concentrate on anything else, I ended up reliving the event I so desperately wanted to put behind me -- replaying it frame by frame, like a newsreel unspooling in the darkened theater of memory.

With Flagg's taunts echoing in my head, the first needling rays of doubt began to pierce the darkness. Was there anything I could've done differently? Any point at which different words or actions would have prevented the final outcome? If I'd put up more of a fight, was there even the smallest chance he might have been discouraged? I'd been so passive...so fearful....

And in the end, what had that meek submissiveness accomplished? Precisely nothing. As things stood, there was nothing to stop Flagg from coming back to hurt me or Arthur again, whenever he felt like it. Nothing, for that matter, to keep him from hurting anyone else he chose to victimize. Hawkeye was right -- I had to find some way to end his game permanently, or I'd never be able to live with myself.

Slowly, with significant effort, I pulled back from the edge of the emotional whirlpool that threatened to drag me down further into the depths of self-reproach, realizing how unproductive it was to indulge such thoughts. What was done was done, and no amount of second-guessing would change it now. For several minutes I let my mind lie fallow as I methodically polished my glasses on the hem of my bathrobe, then I rose from the chair and got dressed. If sleep was impossible and solitude depressing, the only other option was to go out and face the world.

There was still time to catch the tail end of breakfast, so I headed for the mess tent. Though I wasn't very hungry, there were sure to be people there to talk to.

And indeed there were. I picked up a tray and offered a cheerful "Good morning" to Major Winchester, who was ahead of me in line.

Winchester acknowledged the greeting in his usual reserved fashion. "Faather." His tone informed me that if I wanted to distract myself with idle chit-chat, I'd have to look elsewhere for it. Not terribly surprising, and thus not terribly disappointing. The major wasn't the type to mix casually with those he perceived as "outside" his social circle, and in his view, everyone at the 4077th fell into that category. Still, I knew there was good in his heart, if well-hidden, and I'd learned not to take his limitations too personally.

We moved through the rest of the line in silence. At the last station, Winchester was adding sugar to his coffee and I was filling a mug of my own, when I felt someone tap me on the shoulder.

Startled out of my wits by the unexpected touch, I must have jumped three feet in the air, and my coffee ended up drenching Winchester's arm from shoulder to wrist. Horrified, I hastened to apologize. "Oh, dear, I'm so sorry!"

He regarded me coolly, eyebrows raised. "Perhaps you ought to forgo the caffeine today, Father. Bad for your nerves, it would seem."

I glanced around to see who had tapped me, and there was Radar at my side. "Don't be mad at Father Mulcahy, sir," he implored Winchester, extending a handful of napkins to help with the mopping up. "It's my fault. I shouldn't have snuck up on him like that."

"Are you hurt, Major?" I asked, willing myself to calm down.

"Ah...fortunately, no." Winchester took the napkins and put them to use. "For once, we may consider ourselves lucky that the swill they pass off as coffee here rarely exceeds the temperature of bathwater."

"I'm really...very sorry."

He gave a tiny shrug, remarkably unruffled for a man who was dripping at the elbow. "No real harm done. Your apology is accepted."

I watched him go, grateful not to have caused serious damage and deeply worried about the state of my nerves.

"It's me who's sorry," mumbled Radar, still beside me. "I wasn't thinking...."

I patted his shoulder. "Oh, no, my son, you're not to blame. I didn't sleep very well, and it's made me jittery."

The look he was giving me said he knew there was more to it than that, but he didn't challenge my explanation. Without further discussion, we collected our trays and found the nearest empty table, sitting down across from each other.

"You couldn't have gotten much sleep, yourself," I noted. "It was quite late when we said goodnight."

"Yes, sir." Head down, he dug into his heaping mound of powdered eggs with somewhat less enthusiasm than usual. "I had trouble staying asleep."

"Radar, I'm sorry you had to see...what you saw," I said softly. "I wish I could erase that memory for you."

"What I wish," he said, even softer, "is that what happened to you never happened in the first place."

My throat tightened, and I had to fight to keep my composure. "I know. I wish that, too."

"If there's anything I can do to help, you just tell me and I'll do it." He looked up, caught my eye. "I can find people, you know -- even guys who don't want to be found. I've got connections in units all over the place."

I shuddered inwardly, distressed not by the thought of searching for Flagg, but by the thought of finding him. "Well, I'm not sure what the next step will be, but I'll keep your kind offer in mind."

"Cap'n Pierce is gonna look for him, you know."

"Did he tell you that?"

Radar dropped his gaze again, pretending to focus on his meal. "He didn't have to. I saw his face."

Perceptive lad. I, too, had seen Hawkeye's face, righteous anger in its every line, and heard the conviction in his voice when he pledged to avenge me of my adversary. It was entirely possible that he would hunt Flagg down whether I wanted him to or not, and put his own life at risk in the process. I couldn't allow that to happen.

"Oh, Radar," I sighed. "I don't know what to do. I mean, I think I know the right thing to do, but I don't know if I'm strong enough to do it."

He raised his head slowly, and for a brief moment he looked older than his nineteen years. A trick of the light? "I know you'll do the right thing," he said, his voice eerily hushed.

Then a loud metallic sound shattered the quiet, and the illusion was gone. Radar was himself again. I turned around to discover that the source of the noise was Igor, starting to clear away the pans at the serving stations...and suddenly I remembered. "Oh, no!"

"What? What's wrong?" Radar asked around a mouthful of eggs.

"I'd completely forgotten what day this is!" I told him, distraught. "As soon as breakfast is over, I have to lead services, and I haven't.... I'm not...."

"Father, it's okay. If you're not feeling up to it, people will understand, believe me."

"But it's my...."

"They'll understand," he repeated, gesturing toward the door. "I can put up a sign for you, if you want, to let 'em know it's cancelled."

It was a difficult decision, but I had to be honest with myself -- in the condition I was in, I wasn't up to the task. To forget my responsibilities as a chaplain, I knew I had to be coming apart at the mental seams. "Yes, thank you...I'd appreciate that. If you don't mind, could you also add a note that I'll still be available to hear confessions this afternoon?"

"Sure. No problem."

With that concern addressed, I made an attempt to eat some of my breakfast while watching the clerk wolf down his, but I only managed a single slice of toast before queasiness set in. Trouble sleeping, trouble thinking, and now trouble eating -- it seemed the nightmare hadn't ended with Flagg's departure.

So I made my apologies to Radar and excused myself from the table, leaving him to stake a claim to whatever was left on my tray rather than let all of it go to waste. But I paused outside the mess tent door, unsure of my destination. Back to my tent and lonely seclusion? To post-op to see if I could be of any help to the nurse on duty? Though it was the most tempting choice, I vetoed the idea of visiting the Swamp to see if Hawkeye was awake yet.

I was on the way to my tent, having concluded that perhaps another shower might brighten my outlook, when I crossed paths with the very person I'd been taking such care to avoid. In fact, lost as I was in my own troubled thoughts, I nearly collided with him.

Hawkeye kept a steadying hand on my arm until I regained my equilibrium. "Whoa, what's your hurry, Father? Late for church?"

"Sorry, Hawkeye." My day thus far had been one extended apology, or so it felt. "I should've been paying more attention."

"You all right?" he asked, instantly serious.

"I'm fi...." I stopped in mid-falsehood, realizing that if I didn't start being truthful about this, at least with myself and with Hawkeye, the situation was unlikely to improve -- and might conceivably get worse. "No. No, I'm afraid I'm not all right."

Once again he seemed to understand what I was feeling better than I did. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"I'd...like to try."

"Your tent?"

"Yes." My tent was one of the few places in camp where a reasonably private conversation was possible -- after all, it had to serve double duty as a confessional.

When we arrived, he followed me in, and I arranged the folding chairs so we could sit facing each other. But once we were settled, I found myself at a loss for words, unsure where to begin or how much to say.

Grasping the problem quickly, Hawkeye came to my rescue. "You don't have to tell me the gory details, if you don't want to," he assured me. "I know enough about those. Why don't you start with how things are going today?"

That opened up the floodgates, bless him, and onto my willing audience I poured out all the frustrations of nightmares and sleeplessness, jitters and mental lapses, nausea and self-doubt. Hawkeye absorbed the tidal wave with patience and soothing expressions of sympathy, though he couldn't hide his mirth when I described the encounter with Major Winchester. I'm sure he wished he could've been there to see his tentmate and sometime antagonist get doused with coffee.

By the time I'd finished bringing him up to date, it truly felt like a weight had been lifted off my shoulders. This was probably the sort of thing I should have been saving up for Sidney Freedman, or another trained professional, but somehow it was easier -- less intimidating -- to talk about it with Hawkeye, and I was most grateful to him for listening.

When I told him as much, he shook his head and said, "I still think you need to talk to Sidney. All I can offer is an untrained ear and a shoulder to cry on, but he can help you."

Intellectually, of course, I knew he was right, but on an instinctive level, I continued to resist. Evade. Deny. "But I feel so much better already, talking to you. And it's only just happened -- I'm sure the nightmares will fade with time."

No, it didn't sound very convincing, even to me.

"Look," he said, leaning closer, "I could buy that if we were talking about the kind of nightmares people have after reading a ghost story or watching a horror movie -- but we're not. You had violence done to you, and you can't just shove that under the rug and hope it goes away."

I fell silent for a time under his unrelenting gaze, trying to force myself to hear what he'd been telling me. Then, hesitant, I asked, "If I do decide to see Sidney, would that preclude talking to you?"

"Of course not." Hawkeye smiled, sending a warm little shiver straight through me. "I said I'd be here for you, and I meant it."

"Then you've won," I conceded. "Would you mind...making the arrangements?"

"I'll put in a call as soon as we're done here." He paused, the space of a breath or two, before continuing. "Father, there's something I've been wanting to ask you. But if it's none of my business, please feel free to say so."

"You can ask me anything."

"Why you? Was it random bad luck, or did Flagg target you for some reason? And you said if you reported him, people you care about could get hurt -- does that mean someone else here in camp might be at risk?"

By the time he'd finished speaking, my heart was in my throat; to answer those questions, I was going to have to tell him things I'd never admitted aloud to anyone. Things that, until Flagg dredged them up, I'd assumed were safely dead and buried. "I'll answer as best I can," I began, "but I would ask that you treat what I say with the utmost confidentiality."

He nodded, appropriately solemn. "Consider my lips sealed."

"Well, you know, I haven't always been a priest."

"Right. Go on."

"Once, in the past...I had a lover."

A flash of teeth and a raised eyebrow. No surprise that his interest was piqued. "Oh?"

I took a deep breath and got to the point. "His name was Arthur."

"Ohhh." His expression sobered but, to his credit, Hawkeye didn't bat an eyelash.

With the most difficult confession behind me, it was easier to explain the rest. "We were at the seminary together, but he was never ordained. He...dropped out in his final year." (Because of me, I pointedly reminded myself.) "I haven't seen him since then, but apparently he's now stationed in Korea, with the navy. Flagg somehow crossed paths with him and found out about our past relationship, and I fear that Arthur, in the course of revealing that information, may have suffered the same fate I did."

"So Flagg used this guy as leverage? Made threats against him to get you to cooperate?"

"Not threats in so many words. It was more a matter of hints and implications. But I have no wish to stake anyone's safety on semantics, and I believe Flagg is quite literally capable of getting away with murder. The short answer to your question, then, is yes -- if I take action against him, there's a chance that people here, as well as Arthur, could be put at risk."

Hawkeye, his countenance dark, regarded me levelly. "You do realize that whether you report him or not, he's still dangerous, and right now he's out there running around loose. What are you going to do?"

"I -- I don't know," I sighed, struggling to ignore the distraction of an incipient headache. "It would be my word against his. We have no evidence to prove he was even here last night."

"What, you don't think they'll take a priest's word over Flagg's? And they'll have your record in front of them -- which is spotless, I'm sure. What motivation could they see for you to lie?"

"Priest or not, they may be less well-disposed toward me once they hear about my...past. And it would come out; Flagg would make certain of that. I'd be painted as precisely the kind of threat to national security that he's charged with eradicating."

He nodded, understanding that I spoke the truth. "It's your decision, of course," was all he said, but his eyes spoke to me with more eloquence than a ten-minute harangue would've had.

"I know you're right," I said quietly. "I know he has to be stopped. I just don't know if I'm the one who can stop him." When Hawkeye looked away, visibly disappointed, I rose from the chair and concluded my statement with fresh resolve. "But it would be unforgivable not to try. Will you come with me to see the colonel?"

Did I mention that I like to surprise him every once in a while?

The grin that spread across his face was like a shaft of sunlight breaking through the clouds, and I felt reassured that I had indeed chosen the right path.

TBC...

© February 2003.