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. Chill. Have a drink or something.

Warnings: Booze + sex + Catholic priest. Enough said?

Notes: Yes, it's a canon fact that he was once very good at spin-the-bottle (see the episode "Follies of the Living -- Concerns of the Dead").

Feedback: Constructive crit is welcomed and appreciated.

Archiving: Written for the Booze Fuh-Q Fest; fair game for the mash-slash archive, whenever it's resurrected.

*** Many, many thanks to Sparky and Douglas S. for beta-reading. :D ***

by iolanthe (iolanthe@cais.com)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Ask not for whom the bottle spins; it spins for thee."
-- Hawkeye Pierce, December 26, 1951
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Empty...." Trapper John McIntyre heaved a melancholy sigh as he let the last few drops of whiskey dribble into his shot glass.

I clapped my best friend on the shoulder, nearly causing him to lose his grip on the bottle. "Another casualty in the never-ending war against sobriety."

"Yeah, Hawk, but this one was special," he lamented. "Not the usual turpentine we get around here."

"You dare to cast aspersions on the hooch chez Swamp?" Though I felt obliged to defend the honor of our own home-distilled gin, I had to admit that this was damn fine whiskey. And it had fallen into our laps by the grace of God -- or, rather, the grace of our chaplain, Father Mulcahy -- in the form of a Christmas gift for yours truly. How the priest had gotten his hands on such a high-grade bottle of holiday cheer, and why he wouldn't rather keep it for himself, I had no idea, but at the time I thought it best not to question my luck too closely.

One thing was certain: it would've been less than gracious not to invite him to share it with us, and so it had come to pass that Trapper, Mulcahy, and I were congregated in the Officers' Club for a convivial post-Christmas belt. Or six.

Trap lay the bottle on its side in the center of the table and snapped a mock salute. "To fallen comrades!"

"Long may they wave," I batted back, mirroring the salute. Then I raised my glass in Mulcahy's direction. "And to the good Father, for contributing to the delinquency of minor officers."

Mulcahy, looking decidedly mellow, chuckled as he clinked his glass against each of ours. "Now, fellows, you know I can't condone delinquency, no matter the rank of the parties involved."

"'s all right, Father," slurred Trapper, flashing his wicked-little-boy grin. "We were delinquent long before...."

Under the table, I nudged him with my foot. Why borrow trouble when there was already too much talk floating around camp about our rumored "delinquencies"? Turning back to Mulcahy, I said, "Seriously, though...thank you. Next to a signed peace treaty, this was the best present I could've hoped for."

Toying with the empty bottle, the priest appeared to have missed our little byplay. "You're quite welcome, Hawkeye," he said absently. "Thank you for sharing it with me."

"What, you wanna keep the bottle?" I asked, curious about his sudden interest in it.

When he glanced over at me, his smile was warm and his face pink. "Oh, no. Seeing it lying there like that, I was just...reminded of something."

"Yeah?" I leaned closer, even more curious. "Do tell."

He turned a shade pinker. "Well, it's ancient history now, of course, but I was recalling my days as the spin-the-bottle champion of St. Mary's Junior High."

"You're kiddin'." Trap was trying his best not to laugh but falling short of complete success. "Now there's a side of you we haven't seen before."

"I wasn't born a priest, you know," Mulcahy pointed out, smile still intact. "I had to weather the storms of adolescence like everyone else."

"So you were good, huh?" Amused, I gestured toward the bottle. "Go ahead -- show us your technique."

"It's sure to be rusty, but let's see...." Under more sober circumstances, I think Mulcahy would've recognized the implied dare for what it was and declined it, but the scotch had worked its judgment-clouding magic on him. After a few moments of careful finger positioning, he flicked his wrist and set the bottle awhirl.

All three of us watched, so focused we were almost mesmerized, as it spun in a neat, tight circle, throwing off reflective flashes under the dim O-Club lights. "Round and round she goes," mumbled Trap. "Where she stops, nobody knows. Place yer bets."

At last it slowed...stopped...and I found myself staring down the barrel of an unloaded whiskey bottle.

There followed several heartbeats worth of awkward silence before my eyes were drawn to Mulcahy's. "Well," I said, utterly deadpan, "doesn't this mean I'm s'posed to get a kiss?"

More red than pink now, his face was set in an unreadable expression. "Oh, my...I had assumed this was for demonstration purposes only. Properly played, the game requires the participation of...ah...young ladies."

Having taken things this far, I couldn't resist another press of the tease button. Can't help it; it's in my blood. "Okay, fair enough. I'll just get a young lady over here to act as my proxy."

When I half-rose, getting ready to call out to "Hot Lips" Houlihan, who was sitting at a corner table with her not-so-secret admirer, Frank Burns, Mulcahy made a desperate grab for my sleeve. Three or four drinks ago, he might've snagged it. "Hawkeye, please. That won't be necessary."

"Do I get my kiss, then?"

Trapper had been watching our exchange with interest, probably wondering how far I planned to push it. "Technically, Father," he drawled, "you do owe him one. Those are the rules, and we all know you ain't no rule-breaker."

Disconcerted, Mulcahy pushed back from the table. "I -- I think I'd better go."

"Hey, c'mon, wait...." In acknowledgment that I'd strayed too far over the line, I tried to make amends. "I'm sorry. I thought you knew we were only kidding."

After taking a moment to absorb that revelation, he relaxed a bit, and a hint of the old smile returned. "Oh, dear, what's wrong with me? Knowing the pair of you, I should have realized."

"A third of a fifth of scotch might've had something to do with it," Trap offered helpfully.

"Quite right, Trapper -- I'm afraid I've exceeded my limit this evening. It might be wise to bid you goodnight, after all." He got up as if to leave, but instead he stood there for a while, bracing himself on the back of his chair. "Actually," he said, turning pleading eyes upon us, "I may require assistance, if one of you would be so kind."

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"The way this floor is...tilting, I don't think I can make it safely to the door, let alone my tent."

Understandable. Mulcahy wasn't used to tossing back the staggering quantities of alcohol that Trap and I consumed on a daily basis, so in his case, some unsteadiness was to be expected. Come to think of it, I was feeling a little lightheaded, myself. I did mention that it was good whiskey, right? Finest kind.

"Not a problem, Father. My booze, I'll do the honors." I turned to Trapper. "Think you can you find your own ride home?"

"Will do." He sketched another salute in affirmation. "Drive carefully, kids."

My back was to her as I put an arm around Mulcahy and let him lean against me, so I felt Houlihan's disapproving gaze before I saw it. Wasn't hard to imagine what she must be thinking -- there's the incorrigible Captain Pierce, out to corrupt everybody within a five-mile radius, up to and including members of the clergy.

But I decided I wasn't going to let her get to me, not tonight. It was Christmas, damn it -- all right, Boxing Day, if you happened to be British or wanted to split hairs -- and there was nothing wrong with adults of legal age indulging in a few holiday drinks. If we'd maybe had a few too many holiday drinks...well, what business was it of hers?

On the way to the door, I shot Hot Lips a look of purest snow-white innocence, just to let her know I read her loud and clear. Caught staring, she and Burns hastily resumed ignoring us.

The trip to the chaplain's tent was uneventful, despite taking longer than usual. Though he tried not to, Mulcahy leaned on me heavily most of the way, but I didn't mind; on such a chill December night, with only my light jacket on, it was nice to have another warm body so close to mine.

Between us, we somehow managed to get the tent door open and cross the threshold. At that point, I expected Mulcahy to say goodnight and go pass out in his bunk, which is what I would've done, but instead he had a surprise for me.

As soon as the door closed behind us, he turned in my grasp until we were face to face. Before I had time to fully register what was going on, he'd looped his arms around my neck and was pulling me forward into a kiss.

It was, I think, the softest, sweetest, most tender kiss I've ever received...and one of the most inexplicably erotic.

The intensity of my reaction to it scared the daylights out of me. It wasn't that I'd never kissed a man before -- Trapper and I had set records in that area -- but kissing this man was forbidden on more than one level...

...hell, maybe that was part of the thrill?

When Mulcahy drew back, all I could manage was, "Wha' -- what was that?"

"I owed you one," he said simply, a twinkle of innocent mischief in his eyes. But then he dropped his gaze, suddenly shy. "Also, I've been wanting to do that for a long time."

"Uh, you have?" Yes, the famously silver-tongued Hawkeye Pierce had been rendered monosyllabic. Mark this date on your calendars.

"I have." His quick upward glance showed me that the twinkle was still there. "Several of the nurses here are Catholic, you know, and you wouldn't believe some of the confessions I've heard."

"You mean...about me?"

"The details are, of course, confidential. Let's just say I don't think any of them would surprise you."

Somewhere along the line, my evening had taken a sharp left turn at the corner of bizarre and surreal. If you'd told me an hour ago that tonight I would end up being teased about my Casanova reputation in the arms of a priest -- the same priest who'd just poleaxed me with a kiss -- I would've laughed in your face. And then screened you for drugs.

Intrigued but uncertain, I considered my options. Though leaving would've been the safest one, and the smartest, sheer curiosity argued against it -- I had to stay and play out the hand Mulcahy had dealt me. Besides, like I said, pushing limits is in my blood.

Before I could push them, though, I had to discover what they were. "I see. So you just wanted to find out for yourself if the rumors are true?"

"Oh, I can't confirm or deny hearing any rumors."

Whatever his limits, Mulcahy seemed to be enjoying the game thus far. "Well," I mused, "in my defense, you can't fairly judge a man's talents based on one kiss. A surprise one, at that."

"Are you suggesting...?"

Taking a chance that it was safe to do more that suggest, I moved in to touch my lips to his. Slowly, giving him plenty of opportunity to turn away or tell me to stop, if this wasn't what he wanted. Instead, he met me more than halfway, melting into the kiss with enthusiasm and a soft moan.

Once again I felt myself responding strongly to him, and once again an icy splash of fear threatened to douse that flame. If I'd been sober and things had somehow gotten this far out of hand, I would've forced myself to call a halt right then. But I wasn't, and that fact -- on top of having an armful of overexcited celibate -- was playing havoc with what little native self-restraint I possessed.

Eventually, of course, we had to come up for air. When we drew apart, I searched his flushed and smiling face, as if I could read the answers to my many questions there. "Who are you," I murmured, "and what have you done with Francis Mulcahy?"

"I'm still me, Hawkeye."

"Then what are you doing? Tell me I don't have to spell out for you what's wrong with this picture."

The smile faded and he sighed. Shook his head, as if to clear it. "No...you don't. I just thought...."

"What?"

He let go of me and stepped back a pace, offering the freedom to leave if I chose to accept it. "It's nothing. You're right, this should never have happened. Please forgive me."

If he thought I was going to take a flimsy dodge like that at face value, he didn't know me very well. I took a step forward, bringing us back into physical contact. "Oh, no, no, no, wait just a minute. First off, you haven't done anything that needs forgiving -- at least, not by me. Second off, don't you think I'm entitled to some sorta explanation?"

Mulcahy moved back another step, his eyes imploring me not to follow. "Isn't it obvious?" he said quietly. "I -- I'm...attracted to you. I have feelings for you that shouldn't exist. And most of the time, when my good judgment hasn't gone to heck in a shot glass, I deal with those desires appropriately. This time...I didn't."

I'd suspected as much from the first kiss, but it was unsettling to hear it confirmed. Before tonight, I'd never had a clue. "How long have you felt this way?"

Another wistful sigh. "Does it matter?"

Silently, I filled in the words left unspoken: ...when nothing can come of it? "No, I guess not." But I advanced on him again, folding him in my arms before he could evade me. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize."

"You weren't supposed to...."

His breath hitched, like he was fighting to hold off tears, so I held him tighter, rubbing his back in a soothing circular pattern. It was instinctive, the natural human urge to comfort someone in pain, and I didn't stop to think about the consequences until a few minutes later, when he started to massage my back in hesitant reciprocation.

Damn. If only I'd had the sense to listen to my scandalized conscience, screaming at the top of its figurative little lungs, I would've disentangled myself, tucked him into bed -- alone -- and gotten the hell out of there.

But I couldn't. Or wouldn't. Whichever -- I didn't.

By that time, we both understood that the tenor of our embrace had changed. Mulcahy, calmer now, dared to let his hands slip progressively lower until they were kneading my backside. There was no mistaking his intent when he pressed our bodies into even more intimate contact.

You say that I should have walked away? That I, as the marginally less plastered party, should've been the responsible one? Set the good example? Correct me if I'm wrong, but I thought example-setting was more the jurisdiction of, say, a chaplain.

No slight intended to Mulcahy -- as chaplains go, he rates among the finest out here, and the 4077th is damn lucky to have him. I also empathized completely with what he was going through, having myself suffered the torment of unrequited longings more than once in my life. But me, I've never claimed to be a saint, or a role model, or, God forbid, a shining moral example. I knew what we were doing was wrong, but -- drunk or sober -- with the effect his touch was having on me, I also knew I sure as hell wasn't about to walk away.

Once I'd accepted that fact, for better or worse, things began to move more quickly. There were only a few steps separating us from Mulcahy's cot, so I steered him in the right direction and bore him backward onto it. He went willingly, extending an arm in mute invitation, and I sank down on top of him.

God, it felt so good -- his body warm and solid and responsive beneath me, his mouth exploring mine with gentle, searching kisses -- and the real world, bloody war and all, faded into temporary insignificance. No longer priest and surgeon, or lieutenant and captain, we were just two people reaching out to each other, seeking to forge a connection, however fleeting, on the most basic of levels.

Clearly touch-starved, Mulcahy kept his skillful hands in constant motion, running his fingers through my hair, down my back, wherever he could reach. A shiver shot through me when he slipped them under my shirt to access bare skin, skimming up my sides with a feathery caress that was just firm enough not to tickle.

Given our relative positions, my own options for fondling were more limited, but I did the best I could. Even managed to untuck his shirt and work one hand underneath it so I could try to make him shiver in return. The sounds that escaped him as my fingers wandered across his chest told me that my efforts were appreciated.

His touch, his warmth, his sighs of pleasure -- the combination proved my undoing. Heedless of propriety and in helpless thrall to the waves of sensation that threatened to overwhelm both mind and body, I ground my hips against his with increasing urgency. Distantly, I was aware that he was holding me close, stroking my hair, whispering something in my ear...but my mind refused to process all of it at the instant it was happening.

At last the waves overtook me, and I came in jolting, shuddering spasms, thrusting hard against Mulcahy until I feared the cot might give way beneath us. Afterwards, while I struggled to recover my breath and my wits, he continued to pet me and murmur what I now recognized as calming words and endearments.

I lifted my head so I could look him in the eye, and it was then that reality skidded back into the picture, sobering me faster than an ice-water dunking. What the hell had I done? And look who I'd done it to! "Oh, God." Belatedly ashamed, I buried my face in the hollow of his shoulder. "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned."

"Hawkeye, don't...."

"I used a friend of mine for my own gratification."

With a sigh, he tightened his arms around me. "By my count, there are two active participants here, not one person 'using' another. As for what just happened, it's a natural consequence of...this sort of activity. If it hadn't been you, it would've been me -- and it very nearly was."

Selfish bastard that I am, only then did it really hit me that I'd left Mulcahy behind in my headlong rush to ecstasy. I raised my head again, taking fresh note of his heavy-lidded eyes and still-flushed face. "You didn't...?"

"No," he whispered, smiling. "Don't worry, it's quite all right."

"The hell it is."

"Truly, it's for the best." Mulcahy reached up to touch my cheek, conveying more in that simple gesture than if he'd written me an epic love poem. "You've already given me far more than I ever should have asked for. Or accepted."

In hindsight, I probably should've let it go, but it seemed wrong, somehow, to leave things half-finished. "So you're invoking the golden rule of Roman Catholicism? If what you're doing feels good...for God's sake, stop?

He blinked several times, as if deciding whether or not he ought to be shocked by my irreverence, and then laughed. "That rule goes double for priests, you know."

"Look, if you honestly don't want to, I'm not going to force it on you. But you do realize you're already into this deeper than a few Hail Marys?"

"Well, I.... I -- I mean, I don't think...."

It was easy to feel sorry for Mulcahy, so genuine was his distress. But in attempting to balance on the scalpel's edge between his spiritual calling and his earthly desires, he'd set himself a task doomed to failure from the start. Upon reevaluation, I concluded that the merciful thing would be to let the matter drop after all.

"'s okay, I understand," I told him as I started to get out of bed.

But my progress was halted by a tentative hand on my shoulder. "Wait...."

Our eyes locked and I waited, expectant. The silence seemed to stretch out endlessly, until I thought I'd have to either scream or crack a joke just to snap the tension, then, finally...

"Touch me, Hawkeye," he breathed, his voice too hushed to be called a whisper. "Please."

With a smile of reassurance, I leaned down to kiss him, determined to do this right. After all the mental anguish he'd been putting himself through, I figured he deserved better than a quick 'n' dirty fondle.

Now that he'd chosen his path, Mulcahy responded to the renewal of our intimacy with undisguised passion, eagerly reacquainting himself with the taste of my lips and the angles and planes of my body as though months and not minutes had passed since he'd last laid hands on me.

And to think -- if not for one fateful bottle of booze, I never would've imagined that within our outwardly innocent, mild-mannered chaplain lurked a closet sensualist. You just never know.

Rolling him along with me, I repositioned us onto our sides. Quite a trick when you're dealing with two people in one narrow bunk, but I'd had plenty of prior experience in my own bunk. And Trapper's. And various and sundry nurses'. Hell, let's just say I know my way around an army cot.

With the bit of extra maneuvering space this new position provided, I was able to slip my hand down between us and treat my partner in sin to a few well-placed caresses. He moaned and pressed himself into my touch, which was all the encouragement I needed. Not long after that, I had his pants undone and was engaged in what you might call direct reconnaissance.

I know my way around army fatigues even better than army cots.

Already aroused to the point of panting for breath, Mulcahy had to break our kiss, but he rested his forehead against mine and kept one hand on my cheek, trying to maintain a close connection. "H-hawkeye...."

"Hmm?"

"For God's sake...don't stop."

Surprised, I had to laugh, though I was careful not to lose the rhythm. "Did you just make a joke? Now?"

A breathy chuckle. "That was...my intent...yes."

"I tip my hat to you, sir," I said approvingly, ruffling his hair with my free hand.

Whatever he was going to say in response was interrupted by a sharp, gasping inhalation. "Oh! Oh, my...." He clutched helplessly at the back of my neck as his whole body stiffened and arched toward me, seeking and at last finding release. I didn't let go until the last tremors had passed.

In the comfortable, languorous calm that followed, he drew me into an embrace. "Thank you," he murmured.

"My pleasure, believe me. Just promise you won't regret this."

"I...can't make you that promise. But right now, my heart is too full for regrets."

I held him for a long time, avoiding any contemplation of the potential repercussions of what we'd done. Reality being what it was, there was a good chance that these were our last moments on this level of closeness, and I wanted to enjoy 'em. True, Mulcahy had lost a battle against temptation -- thanks in roughly equal parts to himself, the scotch, and yours truly -- but I think I knew even then that he would never permit himself to lose the war. He couldn't, regardless of his feelings for me. It's the way he's wired, just like I'm wired to try to bed every willing partner who catches my eye.

Funny thing, attraction. I wondered if somebody up there might be having a good laugh over this one.

Still, in a devious, one-track mind such as my own, all hope is never truly lost. Another major holiday was right around the corner, after all -- and what's New Year's Eve without a nice bottle of champagne?

END

© February 2003