Chapter Text
Ah, this mad, gay nightlife…
For a priest, Father Mulcahy is well-versed in secular music. So much so that it’s always a jolting reminder whenever Hawkeye finds him at the club’s piano, even if it is some Ragtime diddy two decades old.
Radar dances with Kellye, BJ pens his third letter of the week to his wife, and Hawkeye languishes in boredom with the best of them. He’s trying not to stare at lithe fingers skillfully skimming across ivory with the rhythm and precision that has Hawkeye’s unoccupied mind slowly unravelling in those kinds of errant thoughts again. Curious whispers and conjurations of who Father Francis John Patrick Mulcahy could be if he weren’t who he is. It’s only happened a handful of times through the year-long tenure at the 4077th, and each time, he swears never to think about it again. Yet here he is, in again. Elbow-deep in these thoughts, watching holy back muscles flex through the fabric of Mulcahy’s army jacket. What’s a lonely, drunken, touch-starved Doctor to do?
“Hawkeye, if you had your choice, where would you like to be tonight?” Mulcahy asks conversationally, innocently unaware of the curious considerations distilling in the doctor’s brain.
His blue eyes dart away, guilty and trying to avert thoughts from tracking into dangerous territory. Boredom does funny things to the mind, “In the whole world, Father?” Questions like with hands like that, is Mulcahy a giver or a receiver? And I’d sure like to take him into a supply closet and find out. “Back in my tent shaving my corns.”
When Mulcahy asks why he doesn’t go do that, Hawkeye responds with something glib while thinking that’s a damn good idea. He’s failed his own Limitus Test. Fantasising about a priest, for Christ's sake, is a strong indicator it’s time to beat feet—after one more, of course, and summons Radar for another. He throws back the drink poured for him, using his diagnosis of suffering from stage four boredom as an excuse. Prescription: the horizontal company of an out-of-uniform nurse stat. Preferably a blonde one with blue eyes and a soft lilting voice. Maybe that little Italian number, Shibetta, could pencil him in later this week for a game of Hide The Salami.
Staggering back to his tent Hawkeye tries to remember the first time he noticed Mulcahy. The whole boxing fiasco with Trapper marked the first time they had interacted more than just a passing hello and goodbye. He’d be lying if Mulcahy didn’t start to appear on his radar more often after hearing him bless a man being operated on in a Hebrew prayer. That’s the problem with Father Mulcahy, Hawkeye doesn’t practice the religion he was raised in or believe in god, but Mulcahy is the kind of priest that makes him want to.
When had the priest’s presence become an expected comfort in the OR? Perhaps it had started when Hawkeye felt comfortable enough to daub his perspiring forehead on the chaplain’s army fatigues instead of asking a nurse. Maybe it had been when he had welcomed the fleeing surgeon into his tent, “Don’t be deceived by these trappings. Underneath them, I’m just an ordinary man who is as prone to temptation as you are.” Father Mulcahy had said. Sure, it was in the context of theft the captain had never committed, but that’s not the point. Prone to temptation as you are… oh, if the Father only knew. More pressingly, when had their brushes past each other solidified into friendship? And when had it continued to bleed over from there?
“Star gazing?” BJ asks upon entry, trying to read the room while Hawkeye lays in his cot, staring at the peak of their tent like it holds The Answer while he works on finding The Question.
“I would be if some inconsiderate idiot hadn’t built this thing here and blocked my view.” He doesn’t move to acknowledge the fellow doctor, still staring and folded up like he’s awaiting burial.
“I could use a belt.” BJ tries to tempt him to no avail, frowning with suspicion when it doesn’t work. He’s never known Hawkeye to turn down a drink. Whatever’s bothering him is much worse than previously thought. Maybe BJ should lean on an expert for advice. “Poker? If I can prise him off the piano, Father could join us—“
“No.” It’s the worst idea Hawkeye has heard in a while.
BJ purses his lips, trying the refusal on for size and finds it doesn’t fit, “Don't tell me you’ve soured on the Padre. What happened? Did he pull your pigtails? Show me on the doll where he touched you.”
If Hawkeye had the decency to blush, he would. His knee-jerk reaction is a sharp left-turn thought of Don’t I wish? “It’s past his curfew.” The joke is flimsy and sounds too militant compared to his usual laidback quips. BJ notices the flighty fingers across the tent, eyebrow cocking with conclusions, while he watches Hawkeye play a rhythm of anxiety in the air.
Come of late, BJ has started to wonder. He’s heard the nurses trade secrets, warning the new ones of who is safe to spend time with and who isn’t. Ever since Hunnicutt arrived, Hawkeye’s reputation of being a ladykiller seems to be more of a memory than a present affliction, not that he doesn’t still have his moments. “Radar makes a good bartender,” There’s a lure to his tone while mixing a dry martini. Wet ones are impossible to find in this neck of the woods. Sweet would be blasphemous. “Bet he makes a lot of tips with a baby face like that.”
“Too bad he’s too short to see over the bar.” Hawkeye pauses and rewinds for a beat of reflection before lifting his head with disbelief creased across his brow, “Correct me if I’m wrong, Captain, did you just call our Corporal cute?”
There’s an innocent shrug, “Not in so many words. I would never.” BJ grins into his drink, mischief sparkling in his eyes, “But it was implied.” He adds cheekily, trying to hide his laughter at Hawkeye’s look of quailing abhorrence.
“Radar?! Look, listen, I’m not, okay? But Radar?? There are so many—Radar, really? I’m sensing a great disturbance in the energy of things. Feel that? As if a voice is crying out in terror. That’s your wife, Beej, devastated.”
BJ’s laugh is more at the relief of pulling Hawkeye out of his brooding, “Alright, who would you pick to tip the most?”
“There’s only one man here with the right build to fill a tight sweater,” Hawkeye trumpets, sitting up to accept a martini he didn’t ask for. Both men exchange knowing looks over a sip. BJ Says Klinger at the same time Hawkeye says Mulcahy, both of them mildly surprised at the other’s answer, “We’re both right in our way. Mine just happens to be the best chaplain in the business.” He concedes smoothly and makes an ironclad decision not to talk about it anymore, especially with the arrival of Frank Burns signalling the end of any more fun or loose-lipped talk for the night.
Still, the conversation tugs at a corner of BJ’s mind, and he wonders if he packed that book for his time in Korea. It had been more of a curiosity than a necessity. He tries to remember the author's name, settling down for bed. Kerouac, Kesey, Kemosabe…K-something. Ah, he’ll find it tomorrow.
Or he would have if he hadn’t forgotten.
The flurry of activity caused by Frank’s weak-kneed incompetence at giving up on Private Davis too soon, only for Hunnicut to resuscitate him, causes quite the ripple in the day’s priorities. He refuses to leave the patient’s side, too untrusting of what Frank can do without supervision and finds he has visitors to entertain anyway. Klinger, with his batty dream and Father Mulcahy, knotted in uncharacteristic anxiety. “Would you like a little phenobarb? Maybe 16 milligrams?” He offers, noting new dark circles under the priest’s blue eyes. He does not sneak a peek at Mulcahy’s build under his army jacket, trying to see what Hawkeye had praised last night.
The source of discomfort is named as an impending visit from Colonel Maurice Hollister, Divisional Chaplain and known behind his back as the “Attila the Hun of chaplains.” Who will arrive this afternoon for a spiritual inspection of Father Mulcahy’s flock. Each word Mulcahy shares leaves him looking more worn out and self-conscious.
Between drugs and prayer, BJ debates the effectiveness of a different prescription found somewhere in the middle, “Don't sweat it. Hawkeye says you're the best chaplain in the business.” Watching closely for the results.
Mulcahy blinks. Once, twice and then, “Did he really say that about me?” His soft voice pitches up an incredulous octave of hope. His shoulders relax and settle, a glow finding his face when BJ confirms he’s telling gospel truth. Amazing how a relayed compliment from Hawkeye alleviates Mulcahy’s symptoms entirely.
Moving on towards the wounded, he hears a whistful sigh behind him and the tone of Mulcahy’s smile when he murmurs, “Ah. That crazy agnostic.”
Maybe Hawkeye would be pleased to hear the Father has a pet name for him. Maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe he’s found his brain is too busy for sleep during his off-shift time and is carefully fingering his way through Hunnicut’s library because he’s already exhausted his collection of smut and education. He’d like to find a publication about that OR technique used on Davis—oh, look at that, the newest edition of Life magazine. What’s with the crowd of kids stuffed in a car?—getting him restarted without turning his chest into a charcuterie board for an open heart massage. Or porn. Whatever he finds first.
There’s a pause when he catches a glimpse of a word with promise, pulling the book from the pile to read, “Sexual Behaviour in the Human Male…” his eyebrows taking turns cocking as he looks the book over with mixed emotions, “Alfred C. Kinsey…” his lips purse in suspicion and then figures perhaps he can kill two birds with one stone. Three if it puts him to sleep.
It doesn’t.
Hawkeye is wide awake when the book explains a new little seven-question test called the Heterosexual-Homosexual Rating Scale, scores of 0-6, with the first question staring at him like the barrel of a loaded gun:
To whom are you attracted?
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Both men and women
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Mostly people of the opposite sex of mine
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Only people of the opposite sex of mine
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Only people of the same sex as mine
Hawkeye stares, immediately nauseous, when knee-jerk thoughts conjure blonde hair, blue eyes, a bright smile, and a black shirt adorned with a silver cross. He already knows his answer isn’t the socially respectable choice of 3. “Okay…” he slowly closes the book, worried that it’ll detonate in his hands, “That’s enough reading for today, I think.”
Time to go to the pharmacy and cash in that prescription he made last night, anything to preoccupy his mind with anything else. Life magazine’s cover rises unbidden in his mind, world record…he finds the physical copy, a plan already forming in his mind, yeess, car stuffing. He’s grinning, deciding if he can’t sleep, better initiate some shenanigans because he’s not the type to suffer alone.
Besides, it’ll put him in the close quarters of some much-needed female company. He doesn’t hate the idea the chaplain might be there too, but he hates himself for thinking it. He hasn’t even started drinking yet, leaving him with no excuse this time. “Symptoms are worsening, Doctor.” He warns himself, setting about hunting down a Jeep.
It’s absolute chaos.
The good sort, though, that creates the kind of wheezing only heard when people are laughing too hard to breathe. The whole debacle is kind of beautiful that way, everyone joyfully participating in squeezing inside the covered Jeep or cheering on those gutsy enough to cram in.
He doesn’t know what to think when the chaplain is the first to volunteer. His hand skitters down Hawkeye’s shoulder to squeeze his arm when Mulcahy accepts the challenge without needing any persuading, saying something about how one good turn deserves another. Which is a pity because Hawkeye had practised a bit about boosting morale and—“Anything to lift the 4077s spirits, hm?” Mulcahy smiles, stealing the words. He tries to ignore the priest’s phantom touch but finds it will burn him for the next 24 hours, no matter how many times he scratches the tingling area.
BJ hides his smile (poorly), finding these little interactions to be medically fascinating and not at all like watching a private soap opera. Of course not, but he still makes a mental note to tune in to tonight’s 8 o’clock show.
Hawkeye sets the camera’s timer and slides into the driver’s seat. 16, maybe 17 people to beat Cal Tech’s 15-person record, and without looking, he can sense exactly where Mulcahy is perched inside the Jeep like he’s replaced North on the Doctor’s personal and moral compass. Bad sign.
The camera goes off, and the shit hits the fan. An instant dislike detonates when the newly arrived Colonel Chaplain says, “Captain? This activity, the morality… did Father Mulcahy approve of all this?” As if a little light fun is worthy of snide condemnation. Pierce has never been a fan of organised religion despite being raised Catholic. There’s merit when referring to it as ‘the opiate of the masses,’ and he can tell right away Hollister is one of those intolerant Fire and Brimstone types worthy of a special kind of hatred.
He doesn’t mean to start trouble, but his smart mouth is already galloping and quips out a real winner, “Why don't you ask him yourself, Reverend?” basically an afterthought, but he can see it’s not the first impression either chaplain wants. Colonel Hollister glares while the rumpled Father Mulcahy unfolds himself from the empty vehicle, Hawkeye’s steadying grip on his shoulders. I’ll make it up to you… he thinks, snatching his hands away, self-conscious about how long he’s held on.
They’ve been drinking, Hunnicutt and Pierce. Thankfully, there’s been a lull in fighting, so they’re hitting the “gin” a little harder than usual. “Interesting book you have there, Doc,” Hawkeye slurs with a vague gesture, “I was unaware of your curiosities regarding male sexual behaviour. How does Peggy feel about this?”
His eyes flick up to his bunkmate, wondering if Hawkeye is more of the lesser discussed barsexual classification, “Only when there’s nothing good on TV. Do you wanna talk about it?” He invites over his empty martini glass, holding out a hand for Hawkeye’s equally dry one and smiling when he reads his wristwatch at five minutes past eight.
“Captain, please, I’m just not that kind of girl! Unless you take me to dinner first.” He winks charmingly, BJ rolling his eyes in amusement when he turns towards the alcohol-making contraption.
“You’re right, you know,” he can see Hawkeye’s piqued reflection in the mash glass of the still, “Father Mulcahy?” The black-haired doctor stiffens, back straight as a board at the sound of the chaplain’s name, “He sure isn’t nothing in a tight shirt.”
A grim grin twists across Hawkeye’s face, “Yeah, sure, winner of the Miss MASH pageant 1951, you should see him in a two-piece bathing suit. His special talent is really something.”
The wry sarcasm isn’t lost on BJ, who neutrally asks, “Oh?”
“I won’t ruin the surprise.” His face is still grim when Hawkeye accepts the martini, not bothering to thank the other doctor, drains it in one and hands it back for another.
They go a round of exchanging various expressions. BJ looks every bit the father expecting an explanation for deviant behaviour, and Hawkeye blinks up at him like an ignorant and innocent son. “What?” He pitches, finally caving under BJ’s stare. “Barkeep! Another!” He orders, but the weight of his heart isn’t in it.
“Gladly, when I understand why we’re doing shots of paint thinner.”
“It’s not that bad!” Hawkeye defends his horrendous excuse for gin.
“I have hair growing in places it never did before drinking this stuff.”
“Puberty happens to us all at some time. Like death and taxes.”
“Hawk.”
“What?” He whines again. “This conversation is drier than how I mix my martinis.”
Yet BJ persists, “Share with the class.”
“We don’t have enough penicillin for that to end well—“
“Pierce.” BJ warns, his hands resting on his hips while the other surgeon groans, finally goaded into a confession.
“I screwed Mulcahy.” He doesn’t see how his friend’s eyebrows shoot up into his hairline. He continues, slumping back on his cot, “That man-shaped parade of holy fire caught him coming out of the Jeep when we finished the world record. I set him up for failure, and I can’t…he deserves admiration, not condemnation. I’ll never be able to introduce him to my father now. Dad, Father. Father, Dad.” The drier the joke, the deeper the guilt.
“Tomorrow is Sunday morning. How do you feel about a side quest before we drink the still dry?”
Hawkeye lifts his head, intrigued and finds both of them on the same page, “Oh yeahhh…”