Web Hosting by Netfirms | Free Domain Names by Netfirms

Rating: somewhere between R and NC-17

Warnings: Um, don't expect a lot of actual plot here. :) Also -- and this should be blatantly obvious -- please don't read it if the concept of slash involving a Catholic priest bothers 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.

*** Many thanks to Flick and Douglas S. for being such stellar beta-readers! ***

by iolanthe <iolanthe@cais.com>

"Whaddya think, Trap? Had enough yet?" Leaning across the table, I waved an empty liquor bottle at my best friend and fellow surgeon.

Trapper John McIntyre lifted his head from its resting place on folded arms. "Dunno, Hawk...I can still feel my fingers."

"C'mon, we should try to grab some sleep while we can."

Sleep was a valuable commodity at the 4077th MASH, where a twelve-hour shift in surgery, followed by a post-op chaser, could be considered a light day's work. Two hours earlier, we had dragged our weary carcasses over to Rosie's Bar to celebrate the end of a heavy day's work, and it was well past time for me to get reacquainted with my bunk.

Trapper got up unsteadily but without protest, for which I was grateful. When a plastered Trapper didn't feel like doing something, it could be damn near impossible to get him to do it. "Better let me drive," he mumbled, slinging an arm across my shoulders. "You been drinkin'."

Oh, that was rich. I'd had a few, sure, but nothing on the scale of what Trap had put away. After settling the tab, I steered him to the door and out into the cool fall night.

Leaning on each other by turns, we trudged back to camp and "home" -- tent number six, better known by all and sundry as the Swamp. Frank Burns, our tent's third resident and fifth wheel, looked to be sound asleep, no doubt dreaming of his big house, big car, and big-bosomed secretary back in the States.

I poured Trapper into bed, face first, and started toward my own bunk.

"Hey, Hawkeye," he called out blearily, stopping me in my tracks. "What do you think it all means?"

"Shhh.... You wanna wake up Frank?" I crept back to crouch beside Trapper's cot. "What are you talking about?"

"You know -- why are we here? What's it all about? Are we gonna end up burning in hell for our boozin' and skirt-chasin'? That kinda thing."

"I don't believe this. It's almost two in the morning, we're getting ready to crash -- and you want to chat about the meaning of life?"

"What better time?" he chuckled. "That philosophical bullshit makes even less sense when I'm sober."

A snort of laughter escaped me before I could stifle it, and we both froze as Frank sighed, muttered something to himself, and rolled over.

"That was close."

"Yeah. Look, Trap, I'm not the best person to ask, especially at oh-two-hundred. Father Mulcahy would do better with that stuff -- he's the guy you ought to talk to."

"Ya know, you're right. Maybe I'll do that. Uh...just as soon as the tent stops rotating."

"Tell you what." I pondered for a moment, evaluating my own ability to complete the mission. "I'll go ask, and then I'll come back here and tell you what he said."

"Hey, that'd be great! You're a pal, Hawk."

"I know. Now get some rest, okay?" As I rose, I kissed Trapper's forehead and tousled his curly hair. With Frank asleep and no one else around to see, it was one of those rare moments when I could make that kind of gesture toward my sometime lover without risking a dishonorable discharge. Or worse.

"Mm-kayy."

Though I longed to follow Trapper into slumberland, I've always been a man of my word, so I left the Swamp and dutifully made my way across the compound to the chaplain's tent. It wasn't until I found myself knocking on the door that a ray of sanity penetrated my alcohol-fogged brain. What the hell was I doing? The middle of the damn night and here I was, waking up an innocent third party for.... Well, by that time I couldn't remember the reason, so it must not have been all that important.

I was about to turn tail and head back to my bunk when I heard Mulcahy call, "Ah...just a moment!" A light went on, and a flurry of thumps and rustlings could be heard within the tent.

"Sorry, Father," I whispered through the door. "I didn't realize it was so late. I'll come back another time."

"No, no, it's no trouble. Please, come in."

Figuring it would be doubly discourteous to wake the man and then refuse to talk to him, I cast a last fond look in the direction of the Swamp and went in. Mulcahy, in his bathrobe, was sitting near the desk, a book open on his lap. His face was flushed and his breathing somewhat labored, as if he'd been running. "Oh, it's you, Hawkeye! My, you're up late this evening."

"Yeah. Sorry to wake you."

"Not at all. Actually I couldn't sleep, so I was just catching up on some reading. Please, sit down. What can I help you with?"

Mulcahy's smile was as warm and welcoming as ever, but his rapid-fire patter made him sound strangely nervous, and I was having trouble reconciling his words with his demeanor. If he'd been reading, why was he panting like he'd just run the hundred-yard dash? And why, before I knocked on the door, had the lights been off? "Are you feeling all right, Father? You look a little feverish."

"Oh, no, I'm fine. Never better!"

Concerned, I glanced down at the book in his lap to see what kind of heart-pounding literature might be responsible for his condition. I was surprised to see that it was a Bible...and even more surprised to see that it was being read upside-down.

At last the puzzle pieces clicked into place and it dawned on me that I may have interrupted an activity far more personal than either sleep or reading. Something that most men would be embarrassed to be caught doing and that a Catholic priest wasn't even supposed to be doing.

On one level, the realization was disconcerting. It had been kind of comforting, in a way, to believe that the chaplain was above that kind of thing -- somehow unaffected by base human desires -- and that made it difficult to accept evidence that he might, after all, be just as human as the rest of us.

But on a more instinctive level, seeing him sitting there all ruffled and flustered, it was dangerously easy to accept. So easy, in fact, that I couldn't stop myself from imagining it in salacious detail -- picturing him lying in bed, his resistance low after long hours of work, helpless under his own touch....

I'd never really considered Mulcahy in a sexual context before -- not seriously, anyway -- which only seemed to make my irreverent fantasy about him all the more thrilling. But before I got too carried away with such thoughts, I figured it would be in everyone's best interests if I were to engineer a tactful exit, stage left. "Uh, maybe I should go. It's late, and...."

An expression close to panic flashed across his face. "Wait! Wasn't there something you wanted to talk to me about?"

At first, I was confused. He wanted me to stay? But once I took a second to consider the situation from his point of view instead of my own, it made more sense -- he was afraid. Afraid of being left alone with the opportunity to pick up where he'd left off. I felt a pang of sympathy; the poor guy wanted nothing more than to play by the rules of his faith, but nature had to insist on stacking the deck against him.

I caught, and pointedly held, his gaze. "Look, Father, are you sure you wouldn't rather be alone?"

As I'd intended, the way I asked the question telegraphed my comprehension, and Mulcahy blushed a couple of shades darker. "I'd appreciate it if you'd stay for a little while," he finally said. "The distraction...would be a blessing."

Hard-pressed to abandon anyone in their hour of need, I pulled up a chair and sat down opposite him, putting aside for the moment my own need for sleep. An awkward silence lingered, neither one of us able to conjure up a safe conversational topic, until he could stand it no longer. "How...ah, how did you...?"

"How did I guess?" I smiled, hoping to put him at ease, if at all possible. "For starters, you're wound up tighter than my father's old watch, there's guilt coming off you in waves, and I'm sure you know that book backwards and forwards -- but upside-down?"

"Oh." He glanced down at the incriminating literary evidence and belatedly turned it around. "Oh, dear."

Though I knew my personal opinion wouldn't cut much ice stacked up against the Vatican's, I voiced it anyway, since we seemed to have tacitly agreed to discuss the subject. "You know, of all the things on your 'forbidden' list, this is one I'll never understand. It doesn't do anyone any harm, and I just don't see how a normal, healthy human being could forgo it for an entire lifetime." Or why they would want to, I left unsaid.

"It's not so bad, most of the time," he sighed. "I've learned an astonishing number of ways to distract myself. But, as you've seen, they don't always work."

Presented with an admission like that, I regret to say that curiosity got the better of me. If Mulcahy was really that good at the whole self-denial thing, what could've happened to get him so worked up? Emboldened by alcohol, I asked him straight out. "So, why didn't they work tonight?"

His head snapped up, and I watched the color drain from his face. A less unfailingly polite person would have -- hell, probably should have -- tossed me out on my ear in answer to that question, but at this point, I guess he felt he owed me an explanation. "Ah...well...I had a dream. A particularly...vivid one."

"Oh? What -- or who -- was it about?" Testing the limits, as usual, I had to find out how far into his personal life he'd let me dig now that I'd gotten a glimpse of it.

Mulcahy frowned and sat up straighter. "Really, Hawkeye, is that something you have to know?"

Blithely ignoring the hint, I blew another opportunity to shut up and mind my own damn business. "Oh, come on, you can tell me! I give you my word it won't go beyond this tent. Was it that new nurse? The cute redhead?"

"I'd rather not say."

"I've had a few vivid dreams about her, myself. One involved a huge vat of olive oil and some...."

"Hawkeye!"

"Okay, okay, from now on she's all yours. But can I borrow her on Thursday nights?"

From my perspective, this was all part of the standard Hawkeye Pierce witty banter-slash-innuendo, not meant to be taken seriously, but -- thanks in part to my inebriated state -- I'd misjudged the depth of Mulcahy's distress. "It was not Lieutenant Fitzgerald," he said in a tone that was, for him, curt. "It wasn't any of the nurses, so there's no need to keep guessing."

"A movie actress, then. Rita Hayworth?"

There was a chilly silence, during which it occurred to me that I may have pushed too far, but then he shook his head, the barest hint of a smile surfacing. "Am I to have no peace until I tell you?"

"None." I leaned closer, grinning.

"It won't leave this tent?"

"Scout's honor. Better yet, on my Hippocratic oath, since I was never a scout."

"As you wish." Mulcahy shrugged and dropped his gaze back to the book in his lap. "It was you, Hawkeye," he confessed, so hushed that for a second I thought I'd misheard. "I was dreaming about you."

Thunderstruck, I slumped back in my chair. To say that this wasn't what I'd expected to hear would be putting it mildly...but to say that I wasn't instantly and utterly intrigued would be one hundred percent untrue. For the first time in days, exhaustion found itself replaced by good old-fashioned lust on my list of priorities.

Was I bothered at all by the fact that my lust object of the moment was supposed to be strictly off-limits? Forbidden fruit, as it were? Well, yes -- in the distant, currently numbed sections of my brain devoted to things like reasoning, logic, and guilt. The sad truth, however, was that my overall state of mind at the time was more "Damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead!" than it was "Damn, I'm gonna regret this later."

"Ah," I said, when the capacity for speech had returned. "I see. Who would've thought?"

Mulcahy looked up again, observing me for outward signs of my reaction. "I hope you're not angry. You did insist on hearing the truth."

"No, no," I assured him. "Surprised, yes. Flattered, yes. Aroused, hell yes. But angry...no."

"Oh, my," he said faintly. "All of those things?"

I didn't see any sense in beating around the bush. It went without saying that if this improbable but apparently mutual spark of attraction was ever going to lead to anything, I would have to be the instigator. So I got to my feet and stood in front him, ignoring the startled look he gave me when I reached down and confiscated his Bible, carefully placing it on the desk.

"Hawkeye, what on earth are you...."

I touched a finger to my lips. "Shh. Stand up."

He rose, after a brief hesitation, and we stared each other down. There was definite apprehension in his eyes, but also something more. A glint of something I often saw in Trapper's eyes right before he pounced on me. But I had to remind myself to proceed with caution here -- Mulcahy wasn't Trapper, and he wasn't likely to set aside his clerical vows as casually as Trapper seemed to set aside his marriage vows.

Of course, that didn't mean I wasn't prepared to use every means at my disposal to persuade him to do exactly that. "Tell me this," I ventured. "If you're going to sin anyway, why not go all out and make it a really big one? Either way, aren't you still forgiven if you ask nicely?"

"It isn't meant to work that way," he countered, "and you know it."

Okay, so I wasn't seriously expecting him to fall for that one. But as I racked my brain in search of more convincing arguments, thinking back on how we'd ended up in this position in the first place, inspiration sneaked up and tapped me on the shoulder. "All right. Close your eyes," I instructed him.

"What?"

"Please. Humor me."

Mulcahy quirked a suspicious eyebrow but did as he was told. I moved a step closer, as close as I could get without touching him, and bent my head to whisper in his ear, pitching my voice seductively low. "Listen to me very carefully, Francis." (At this stage of the game it didn't seem appropriate -- or helpful -- to keep calling him "Father.") "As strange at it may sound, none of this is really happening. You didn't wake up in the middle of the night, and you never heard anyone knocking at your door. Right now you're still safe in bed, sound asleep and dreaming."

Instead of evicting me then and there, which I'd been braced for, he surprised me once again by latching onto my gauzy wisp of fiction faster than a drowning man would seize a life preserver. "Dreaming," he echoed, his tone thoughtful.

Encouraged, I picked up the ball and ran with it. "The details of this dream are so clear, so sharp, that everything looks and feels just like it does in waking reality, but it's not. This is all taking place in your subconscious mind, and because you have no conscious control over your dreams, almost anything can happen. Am I right?" When I rested my hands on his shoulders, I could feel him trembling.

"Y-yes...."

"Even though I'm not really here, you can talk to me as if I were standing right in front of you and not just a figment of your imagination. Tell me what happened when you dreamed about me."

We were so close together, our cheeks almost touching, that I could tell from the warmth alone that he was blushing. "First," he said quietly, "if you were here, I'd want you to know that I've always been very fond of you, Hawkeye. As a friend, I mean. You've been blessed with that charm, that charisma that instantly draws people in, but it's your kind and loving spirit that keeps them there beside you."

Ouch. No, the irony was not lost on me that perhaps a true friend wouldn't be traveling the path down which I was trying to lure Mulcahy. I began to reevaluate the plan.

He took a steadying breath and continued. "I suppose there was a deeper attraction almost from the start -- though, for obvious reasons, I could never admit it, not even to myself. But even the most carefully suppressed desires tend to seek expression in some form, and mine found an outlet in dreams."

"Then, this wasn't the first?" Oh, this was getting better by the minute. Lust-driven as I was, I hadn't thought any further ahead than a single night of fun, but by this time it was clear that the man had some feelings for me that, given the chance, might easily exceed the bounds of friendship. How could I sink so low as to take advantage of that -- of him? Was I that far gone?

"No, not the first. Though I've never had one quite as...inspirational as tonight's."

"Francis, if I were here with you right now, like this, in the waking world, what do you think would happen? What would you want to happen?"

"Ah," he sighed, "if this were reality, I would have already bid you goodnight and sent you on your way. What I might want to do is entirely separate from what I must do, you understand."

Truer words.... Resigned, I let my hands slide from his shoulders and stepped back a pace.

But I heard his breath catch and saw that one hand was half-raised, as if halted in the act of reaching out for me. He still hadn't opened his eyes. "Of course," he hastened to add, "since this isn't reality, what I would do in reality is irrelevant. As you pointed out, I have no control over where my dreams might lead me."

Now that was an interesting spin. Mulcahy may have been a touch naive, but it was inconceivable that he'd actually bought into all this dream nonsense. Which could only mean that he wanted to play along -- to follow where I might lead him.

A shiver rippled through me. This was pretty heady stuff; if my interpretation was accurate, he was volunteering to put himself in my hands, trusting me to use my best judgment, compromised though it was. Maybe he hoped that by giving up control of the situation, the inevitable burden of guilt associated with it would be easier to bear.

Though my body was telling me to snap up what he was offering with both hands and not let go until we'd both dropped from exhaustion, the rest of me wasn't so sure. Even putting aside the celibacy issue, sex is just better, in my opinion, when there's a more equitable distribution of power. If total control was what I wanted, I'd be better off at home with my collection of nudist magazines, if you know what I mean.

But whatever twist of fate had brought the two of us together this night had perversely done so when we were each at our most susceptible -- me sleep-deprived and judgment-impaired, him sleep-deprived and emotionally vulnerable. Kind of a dicey combination.

Resuming my close-in stance and the low, silky tone of voice, I gave him another chance to bow out. "Answer me honestly -- would you say you're enjoying this dream so far?"

"Yes."

"And wherever it takes you, are you sure you're willing to follow?"

"Yes." Barely a whisper, but spoken without hesitation.

I studied his face, so open and guileless that his desire for me was all right there for the reading, even with his eyes closed. Mulcahy was, I knew, several years older than me, but that choirboy face sometimes made him seem very young...and very innocent. I noted that he was leaning toward me, ever so slightly, waiting for me to take the next step -- to cross, for both of us, the line that he dared not cross on his own initiative.

Stronger men than I have been tempted by far less.

Almost before the decision was finalized in my mind, my hands were on him, cupping his face, and I was leaning down to touch my lips to his. When he realized what was happening, Mulcahy made a little sound, halfway between a sigh and a moan, that erased any traces of doubt I may have harbored. There would be no turning back now.

The second kiss built upon the foundations of the first, with more self-assurance on both sides of it, and then flowed seamlessly into the next. As I'd expected, he was careful to follow my lead, making it difficult to tell how much, if any, prior experience he might have had with this type of thing. Not that it mattered one way or the other -- again, sheer nosiness on my part.

Experienced or not, he managed to infuse even the slightest contact with such unselfish and unselfconscious enthusiasm that I was soon left breathless. It had become painfully clear, if it wasn't before, that Mulcahy was not only starved for touch and affection, he was starved for my touch and affection. Which made his eagerness to buy into the "dream" scenario all the more understandable.

"You all right?" I asked, brushing his cheek with my thumb.

The question was sort of rhetorical, but in answer, he reached out blindly to lock his arms around my waist and pull me toward him, closing the already insignificant gap between us. It was a heartening sign that he might not turn out to be as passive a partner as I'd feared. Encircling his shoulders, I returned the embrace, and we pressed our bodies tightly together. In that intimate position, it was obvious to all concerned just how "all right" we both were.

Now I was faced with a classic problem -- my clothes suddenly felt more restrictive than a hardbound copy of the U.S. Army rules and regs, but I was disinclined to let go of Mulcahy even for the brief time it would take to strip down. Fortunately, the ridiculous mental image of the pair of us standing there like that until sunrise, swaying without music, spurred me to action.

I pulled back a bit, with assurances that all was well, and slipped my hands beneath the lapels of his bathrobe, then out across his collarbone and downward, efficiently baring him almost to the waist. Startled, he drew a sharp breath but offered no resistance. In fact, when I bent my head to drop a kiss on his shoulder, he released me long enough to disentangle his arms from the sleeves and unknot the robe's belt, letting gravity claim his last layer of defense.

My pulse quickened -- we were actually going to do this. It took a fair amount of self-restraint right then not to drag him to the floor and just take him, as I might have done if it were Trapper, but this situation called for a less aggressive approach. Trap and I knew each other's boundaries well enough to handle whatever level of intensity the mood dictated, from slow and easy to urgent and rough. Mulcahy, on the other hand, was an unknown quantity -- possibly even to himself -- and I didn't want to do anything that might spook him.

What I did want to do was shed my own clothes double quick so we could make some progress up that all-important learning curve. As I stripped off my jacket and tee-shirt, I got some unexpected help in the form of deft fingers, guided by touch alone, unbuckling my belt and tugging at my zipper. It seemed I wasn't the only impatient one in the room.

"Better let me get my boots off, first," I advised him, amused. "C'mon over here." Hanging onto my unbelted pants, I led Mulcahy to his bunk and sat down beside him so I could unlace and kick off the boots. Everything else followed in short order, leaving us on a level playing field at last.

I took him by the shoulders, drawing him in close for a renewal of our previous activities. He turned his head to meet me, lips parted in anticipation, and we commenced another round of increasingly impassioned tongue-fencing.

Rousing as it was, there was still something holding him back. I don't know if he was waiting for written permission or what, but since we'd disrobed he hadn't made a move to touch me anywhere below the neck. Would I have to lead him through this thing every step of the way?

All right, then, so be it. To give him a jump start, I reached for his hand and guided it to my chest. He took the hint, thankfully, and my upper body became the subject of a thorough -- and thoroughly enjoyable -- exploration. Mulcahy had the instincts of a born masseur, with a touch that shifted between strength and gentleness with flawless judgment. I don't think my back's ever been so relaxed.

As I let my thoughts drift under his attentions, a wicked little idea popped into my head and put down roots, resisting all attempts to banish it. Anyway, I mused, why should I banish it? From all indications, Mulcahy had given me carte blanche to do as I pleased, and what good is having power like that if you don't make use of it? Benevolently, of course. Working from that premise, I stilled his talented hands and rose from the bed. "I'm not going anywhere," I whispered, noting his concern. "Lie down."

He allowed me to maneuver him into a horizontal position, lying on his side. Since there isn't a whole lot of room in an army cot even for one person, I opted to kneel beside it -- the perfect stance for observation. "Francis," I said, running my hand slowly up and down his side in what I hoped was a soothing fashion, "there's something I'd like you to do for me."

His voice was rough, unsteady. "I'll do whatever you ask of me, if I can."

"I want you to show me what you were doing tonight, right before you thought you heard me knock on the door."

"Show you...?" Predictably scandalized, he flushed bright red.

"No reason to be shy," I teased. "Remember, I'm not really here. Besides, I've already fantasized about it and I'm curious to see if I got all the details right."

Still he hesitated. There was no doubt that his conscience had already taken quite a beating this evening, and, faced with his evident reluctance, I considered withdrawing the request. After all, I'd intended for this to be erotic, not humiliating.

But before I could do so, Mulcahy came to a decision. Rolling onto his back, he started to trail his fingertips over his chest, sighing as they brushed lightly across each nipple in turn. I clasped his free hand, for encouragement and moral support, and watched, mesmerized, as he proceeded to show me what I'd asked to see.

It was everything I'd pictured and then some. By the time he'd worked his way down to the important bits, sweat had beaded on his forehead and his breath was coming in uneven gasps. When he finally curled those sensitive fingers around his shaft, I swear I could almost feel it myself.

"H-hawkeye," he panted, squeezing my hand tight as he granted himself a little well-deserved pleasure.

"I'm here." Oh, God, was I ever there.

"When I...when I did this before...I imagined that...it was you touching me."

The emotional undercurrents beneath that admission made my heart ache and other body parts twitch. Hell, maybe I couldn't change the facts of our real-life situation, but I could certainly oblige him here in our imaginary dream world. I reached down to wrap my hand around his, following his established rhythm. "Let me," I murmured. "I want to."

In this, he deferred to me willingly, and in the interest of discovering what would please him most, I took full advantage of the chance to experiment, alternating slow, deliberate strokes with more rapid patterns until I had him writhing helplessly and clutching at the bedcovers. When it started to look like the end was near, I delivered the coup de grace, leaning over to take him in my mouth.

He nearly levitated off the cot, sitting bolt upright to tangle trembling fingers in my hair. "Oh, dear God...Hawkeye!" I figured he wouldn't want me to stop what I was doing to reply, so I didn't.

It was then that we heard the sound. The sound that almost ruined everything.

Unexpected, unwelcome, and loud -- a knock at the door. My first thought was that it was Radar, waking people to announce the arrival of casualties. But then I heard the visitor's voice, and my heart sank even further than if there had been incoming wounded.

"Hawk? You in there?"

It was Trapper, looking for me. When I'd left him passed out in the Swamp, I was sure he was out for the night, but apparently he'd found his second wind.

Already knowing what I would see, I lifted my head and looked up into eyes that were very wide, very blue, and very panicked. Our fantasy bubble had been well and truly popped.

Poor Francis -- to be frustrated twice in the same night by drunk doctors with rotten timing....

"Shh...relax," I soothed, easing him back down on the bed. "Everything's fine -- this is all just part of the dream. Dreams can take strange turns sometimes, you know?"

"But...."

I got to my feet, taking a second to massage my abused knees. "Don't worry. I'll take care of it." Just don't ask me how....

"But, Hawkeye...."

Another, more insistent knock was heard, accompanied by, "Father? You seen Hawk anywhere?"

Experience had taught me that, like a bloodhound on the scent, Trapper wouldn't leave until he had either seen me or gotten a solid lead as to my whereabouts. Crouching down, I took Mulcahy by the hand. "Francis, do you trust me?"

"Yes. Yes, of course."

"Then please believe this -- I don't want to put you in an awkward position here. Just say the word and I'll send him away PDQ. But what I'd really like to do" -- deep breath -- "is invite him in."

His eyebrows shot upward in astonishment. Given the nature of what I was asking, it was understandable. "Invite him in...to join us?"

"Whether or not he participates would be up to you."

Mulcahy looked away to stare up at the canvas roof above our heads. "I take it, then, that you and Trapper are...lovers?" he asked in a small, sad voice.

The wistful longing behind his words once again wrenched at my insides. Lovers -- was that the right word for it? I hardly knew myself how to define the comfortable relationship I had with Trapper, much less the tentative one I'd begun forging tonight with Mulcahy. Bet my life would have been a hell of a lot simpler if I'd stuck to chasing nurses.

"More like close friends who sleep together once in a while," I told him honestly. "We've never been exclusive."

There was no time for a more substantive discussion. Trap hadn't given up on us yet, and if we waited much longer, he'd have the whole camp awake and curious to see what all the fuss was about. "Hey," he sang out, "I know somebody's home -- I can hear ya breathing!"

Turning his head back in my direction, Mulcahy regarded me with an unfathomable expression. "My apologies, Trapper," he called, holding my gaze. "Please, come in."

So. The die was cast now, and all bets were off. At the very least, ol' Trap would get some decent blackmail material out of this. Shoving aside second and third thoughts, I gave Mulcahy's hand a last bracing squeeze and went over to assume the role of welcoming committee.

The door swung open, Trapper poked his head in, and his jaw just about scraped the floorboards when he saw me standing there in the chaplain's tent wearing nothing but a grin.

"Well, are you coming in here or not?" I asked, all wry innocence. "You're letting in the cold air."

He hustled to get inside and closed the door, his eyes darting back and forth between me and Mulcahy, who was now perched on the edge of the cot with a pillow in his lap, fiddling nervously with his dog tags. Trap may have been somewhat less than sober, but it didn't take a rocket scientist to put one and one together to make two. "Hawk, what the hell's going on?" he hissed, more baffled than angry. "I thought you came over here to talk, not to...."

I put my arm around him and steered him over to a corner where we could whisper with more discretion. "Look, I'll give you the whole story later. For now, all you have to know is that our friend over there has had a rough night, and he's in need of some personal attention. Are you getting my drift?"

"Sure," he said, shaking his head, incredulous. "I'm just having trouble believing it."

"You can go back to the Swamp, if you want. Asking you in was my idea." I shrugged and smiled. "Maybe I shouldn't have, but -- I dunno -- the thought of the three of us together kind of...got to me."

"You're insane." Trapper was grinning now, too. I hoped that meant he was warming up to the idea. "That must be why we get along so well."

"I refuse to be distracted by your shameless flattery. Are you in or out?"

"Pausing at the threshold." He stole another glance at Mulcahy. "Are you sure he's okay with this?"

"He's not wild about it, no, but he did agree to let you in. And you and I both know how persuasive you can be. Just...take it slow."

He nodded and broke from our huddle, walking over to sit beside Mulcahy. They studied each other for a moment in silence, then, with typical bluntness, Trapper laid out the question in black and white. "So what'll it be, Father -- do I stay or go?"

Mulcahy looked toward me for help, but I kept my expression neutral. He already knew what I wanted; the final say had to be his.

He turned back to Trapper. "Stay, if you wish to. But...I would appreciate it if you'd call me Francis."

A respectful nod. "Understood." No, Trap wasn't even half as thick-headed as his reputation might lead one to believe.

Negotiations complete, all that remained was to figure out how this was going to work in practical terms. Obviously, the cot wouldn't hold all three of us, so while Trapper undressed off to one side, I spread a few blankets on the floor. Mulcahy stayed where he was, probably still getting over the shock, until I pulled him up off the bed and into an embrace.

"A dream," I whispered, stroking his back to ease some of the tension that radiated from him. "Only a dream." I wasn't optimistic that the ploy would work a second time, but it was the only method I knew that had a chance of sending him back to that safe place where he could allow himself to let go.

When he seemed sufficiently calm, I caught Trapper's eye and gestured for him to come over. As I'd advised, he took it slow at the outset, first laying his hands on Mulcahy's shoulders and then, when there was no objection, easing closer until he was pressed snugly against the chaplain's back.

Consequences be damned -- at this point, I was in hedonistic heaven. All that luscious naked flesh within easy reach, two sets of lips (and everything else) ready and waiting for my attentions.... If I played my cards right, the potential was there for the reality to surpass the fantasy.

Mulcahy tilted his head back, resting it on Trapper's collarbone, and looked up at each of us in turn through half-shuttered eyes. It suddenly struck me that he'd taken off his glasses sometime after Trap's arrival. He had left them on throughout our "dream sequence" -- maybe he thought blurred vision would lend a measure of unreality to the proceedings now. Or maybe he just didn't want the frames to get bent.

Then he made that sound again -- that soft, sighing moan -- and I was lost. With a growl of lust, I renewed my claim on his lips, tasting and being tasted with a level of intensity that we hadn't approached before. I felt his fingers digging into my back, trying to draw me in closer than was physically possible. He was aided in this effort by a second pair of hands -- Trapper's -- that had taken firm hold of my hips.

When I came up for air, I had just enough time to recognize the familiar glint in Trap's eyes before he took his own turn at ravishing my mouth. We went at it in grand style, giving our new partner a close-up view that he didn't need his specs to appreciate.

No one remained idle, though. I quickly lost track of whose hands were where, doing what, and was content to simply enjoy the overlapping touches and caresses and kisses while doing my best to return them in kind.

Bliss, I tell you...it was pure, sybaritic bliss. For that brief time, I was almost -- almost -- able to forget about Korea and what we were all doing over here, so far from home. And that, my friends, is saying something.

Of course, as much as we may have wanted to, we couldn't maintain that animated tableau indefinitely. Sometime later -- it could've been a few minutes or several hours, for all I knew -- Mulcahy left off nibbling at my lower lip to ask if we might consider a relocation. "I'm afraid I've been rendered somewhat weak at the knees," he explained, apologetic.

I couldn't speak for Trapper, but my own knees were in complete agreement, so we moved the festivities down to floor level. This time I ended up in the middle, stretched out on my back and nestled between two warm and affectionate fellows who were only too eager to provide a physical demonstration of just how much they cared for me.

Being the center of all that attention was gratifying, to say the least, but after a while, I noticed that there was some interesting nonverbal interaction going on between my two adoring fans, as well. Mulcahy seemed to be getting a crash course in "Hawkeye 101," following the lead of Professor Trapper as he pointed out my most responsive areas. A sensual lick on the right side of my neck, for example, would be immediately and faithfully reproduced on the left side, to similar shivery effect. Mulcahy was an attentive student; I hoped he was taking notes.

Working in concert, they brought me right up to the brink of raving insanity before -- at long last -- Trapper guided Mulcahy's hand down to the one area they'd thus far neglected. When two sets of fingers closed around my shaft, my whole body arched upward and I couldn't hold back a groan. The lessons continued apace, with hushed whispers now being exchanged between teacher and student. Nothing I could really decipher, but the sound itself added something to the overall experience, reinforcing the fact that two of my closest friends were collaborating for my benefit.

Through my euphoric haze, it occurred to me that Trapper, though a latecomer to the party, seemed to have taken on the leadership role. Not that I was complaining, mind you -- I was more than happy to lie back and let someone else orchestrate things. And given what happened next, I concluded that by stepping into that role, Trapper was in fact showing himself to be admirably unselfish.

The tag-team fondling tapered off, and I opened my eyes to watch with great interest as he took Mulcahy by the hand and coaxed him into climbing on top of me, kneeling astride my hips, a position Trap knew I favored. The solid weight of another man's body pinning me to the floor, our erections brought into intimate contact...hey, what's not to like?

But there was more. Once we were settled in place, Trapper set to work on both of us at the same time, making liberal use of fingers, lips, and his preternaturally skilled tongue. The relentless, teasing friction began to build in intensity as Mulcahy moaned and wriggled atop me, his hips moving in reflexive little thrusts with every lashing of Trap's tongue.

To my mind, it was a generous and rather touching gesture, what Trapper was doing for us -- keeping himself involved in the action while also staying in the background. Like I said, he's often more perceptive than he's given credit for.

Hoping that Mulcahy understood what I understood, I reached out for him over Trap's head. Our fingers interlaced as if they'd been made to fit together, and Mulcahy held on tight, his unfocused gaze misting over with emotions to which I knew he dared not give voice. Even when he reached the shattering, trembling climax that had been so long delayed, all he would permit himself was a choked sob and a roughly whispered, "Hawkeye...."

I was already close to the edge myself, and watching Mulcahy surrender at last to this illicit, forbidden pleasure pushed me right over it. When I came, still clutching his hands, I sighed his name as I buried myself in the heat of Trap's insistent mouth. I was fairly sure that Trapper wouldn't feel slighted, and if he did, I could always make it up to him later.

When the last tremors had subsided, Trapper gracefully withdrew and sat back, cross-legged, on the floor, content for the time being to observe. Mulcahy, more than just his knees weak now, sank down on top of me and rested his head on my chest. For a time, no one moved or spoke, each recovering at his own pace, and then I heard Mulcahy say something, very quiet, that I sensed was not directed at me.

I was right. What he'd said became clear when Trapper, his smile broad and warm, replied, "You're welcome."

While verbal expressions of gratitude were fine and dandy, I had another, more tangible payback in mind for our friend's good deed. Tracing idle patterns across Mulcahy's back with an index finger, I murmured, "Want to help me thank him properly?"

Still half in a daze, he raised his head. "Show me what to do."

I helped him roll off of me and beckoned to Trapper, who, to judge by his knowing grin, had guessed what was coming. Or, rather, who would be coming. He lay down between us, arms folded behind his head -- his pose and his casual attitude both quintessentially Trapper. "Two against one," he purred, "but I still like my odds."

We made ourselves comfortable on either side of our willing victim, Mulcahy mirroring my position, and began with a review of some of the hands-on techniques he'd been practicing on me earlier. If Trap's throaty growls were any indication, our star pupil had learned his lessons very well indeed.

From there, I made a smooth transition into using lips and tongue as well as hands on various key points of Trapper's anatomy, and, as he had before, Mulcahy followed along in near lockstep. The thought crossed my mind that, in the unlikely event we ever found ourselves in this situation again, I might have to work on fostering his creative independence.

Trapper, however, had no complaints about what we were doing, especially when we finally rewarded his patience by devoting our full attention to his erection. Not that I'm envious or anything, but Trap's a guy of impressive dimensions, so there was plenty of room down there for both of us.

Fortunately, not so much room that, in the course of our lubricious labors, Mulcahy and I didn't cross paths from time to time. More than once, I slipped on purpose so I could steal a kiss or two from the chaplain's lips. He didn't seem to mind.

Neither did Trapper, who was watching us intently, his aura of cocky nonchalance abandoned. The speed with which it had faded as his arousal grew was a testament to the efficiency of teamwork -- all too soon the two of us had reduced poor Trap to the inarticulate moans and whimpers that, as I well knew, signaled the beginning of the end for him.

At that point, I tried to let Mulcahy off the hook. After all, he wasn't obligated to see this part through to the bitter end. Trapper's involvement was my doing...my responsibility...and from what I could tell, Mulcahy had only agreed to it because he wanted to please me.

But it didn't surprise me to find out that once he'd committed himself to something -- even something like this -- he was committed all the way. Realizing that he wasn't going to back off, I saluted him with one more kiss before we launched our final merciless, slurping assault on Trap Tower.

Trapper, his cool now completely blown, urged us on with a light, guiding hand on each of our heads. He couldn't keep still and seemed to be muttering a steady stream of nonsense (though I could pick out the occasional "yes" or "please" or "oh, God"). Moments later, he cried out and convulsed beneath us, hips straining upward, while we did our best to hang on and stay with him through the last shuddering wave.

After Trap had caught his breath and we had taken care of the necessary cleanup duties, we lay down on either side him. He leaned over and kissed me, then turned to Mulcahy. "Ya know, Francis," I heard him sigh, "a guy could get used to this. Please tell me it wasn't a one-time thing?"

My heart plunged three or four stories straight down. Oh, that's right, Trapper, put him on the spot.... While I did say that my friend's thick-headed reputation was misleading, I never said it was entirely unearned.

"Well...ah...I...I don't know," Mulcahy stammered.

A sharp elbow to the ribs was my subtle way of suggesting that Trapper not pursue that line of questioning. Mulcahy was going to have a hard enough time trying to reconcile his recent actions with his faith without adding outside pressure to the mix.

Trap could take a hint, at least. "Jeez, I'm sorry," he said, and it sounded like he meant it. "That wasn't fair."

"No, the question is a fair one. But I don't have a fair answer for you at the moment."

After that there was silence, prompting me to roll over to find out what was going on. About the last thing I expected to see was my two companions sharing a kiss -- their first and only, if I was remembering right -- but that's what was happening, and I'm not ashamed to admit it got me a little choked up.

Yeah, I can be a sentimental fool sometimes. What's it to ya?

"Thanks for tonight, then," I heard Trapper whisper, "and we'll leave it there for now."

That was indeed where we had to leave it. As nice as it would've been to curl up in those blankets together and sleep in a heap, the sun would be rising soon, as would most everybody else in camp, making it risky for Trap and I to stay much longer. So, reluctantly, we separated, got up, and retrieved our clothing. As we each dressed in our respective corners, there was an odd feeling of melancholy in the air, as if the three of us were about to part forever instead of a matter of hours.

It saddened me to think that would probably end up being true, at least in one sense.

The holder of the pivotal vote was back in his bathrobe, intending to forgo breakfast in favor of a few hours of sleep. Trapper and I, who could barely keep our eyes open by this time, planned to do the same. In the interest of discretion, Trap departed first and I gave him a few minutes' head start.

When the door closed behind him, I turned to Mulcahy. "Will you be all right?"

"I think so. I honestly don't know."

It must have been the hint of tormented ambivalence in his voice that gave my sense of guilt a long-overdue wake-up call. "You know I never meant for this to hurt you," I said, laying a hand on his shoulder. "If it has -- if I have, I'm sorry."

Mulcahy hung his head, avoiding my gaze. "If I'm hurt, Hawkeye," he said softly, "I've brought it on myself. No one else is to blame."

My own opinion differed, but I was too tired to argue about it right then. "Just one more thing. However you decide to handle this -- whether you need to forget it ever happened or you want do it again tomorrow night, or anything in between -- then that's how it'll be. No one's going to pressure you one way or the other."

He nodded solemnly, but then shot me a surprising look that actually gave me reason to hope. "If nothing else," he said, a shy smile curving his lips, "I expect I'll be having some fascinating dreams in nights to come."

At the door, as I was leaving, I folded him in my arms for a quick embrace that I sincerely hoped would not be our last. "Goodnight, Francis. And sweet dreams...."

END

© November 2002