Chapter Text
The first thought on his mind, when he wakes early in the morning, is I have a friend.
A statement that could be wholly unremarkable if it wasn’t for the fact that while likeable, Francis John Patrick Mulcahy isn’t sure he’s ever really had one of those before. No disrespect to his sister; siblings don’t entirely count in the same manner.
It’s a new, refreshing feeling that explains his odd, flaring reactions. Unaccustomed to touch or such singular attention, no wonder spending time with Hawkeye feels dangerous and runs with a constant hot undercurrent of…embarrassment? Trepidation? Caution? He can’t quite put his finger on the word. To touch a solid definition blooms a fear much better stored away. It’s awkward because it’s new, and Mulcahy feels an urgency for more for the same reason.
When he kneels for morning prayer, he finds he can still feel the touch of Hawkeye on his hands from playing golf yesterday. Close friends, perhaps… and yet there’s still so much distance left to cover, that same barrier of fear rising to prevent further investigation.
His body is on high alert, seeking out Hawkeye before it registers in Mulcahy’s mind when he enters the mess tent for breakfast. His ears perk when he hears BJ scoffing humorously, taunting the other surgeon for his prestigious appointment as the foot inspector of the month. Hawkeye opens his mouth for a whip-crack retort, but instead, his eyes land on Mulcahy, who has paused to taste their conversation—the doctor’s entire face creases in a smile far too shiny for this hour of the day.
“Well, aren’t you the perfect little arrangement of atoms to see bright and early in the morning?”
He can’t help but beam at the way Mulcahy jerks at the praise, making a show of rolling his eyes. Hawkeye’s mind chequers in minuscule fantasies: in another life, they’d be at home in Maine, sharing a single piece of buttered toast. Hawkeye would swat him on the rear before cosying up behind him, chin on Francis’ shoulder and arms around his waist. Reality continues to be endlessly disappointing.
“Please, Hawkeye,” Mulcahy rolls his eyes, doing a poor job of masking his coy amusement, “Breakfast is hard enough to eat as it is. How do you like your coffee?” He inquires with two mugs in his hands.
“With you.” Hawkeye responds in instant flirtation, painting his face in a cutesy expression that hides the honesty of his statement.
It shocks the priest’s heart a little, indulging in flattery before reminding himself he talks like this to everyone.
Friends, we’re friends.
He already knows through observation how Hawkeye takes his morning drink: black. Sugar is already stationed at the table and lands the full mug before the surgeon, using the other to save his seat.
When he returns with his food tray, the two doctors are back where the cleric had left them. “I lie awake at night, dreaming of the day I'll be promoted to the head of foot inspections. It's the pinnacle of a medical career, after all.” BJ smirks into a forkful of eggs.
“Indeed, grasshopper. It is a demanding position requiring nerves of steel and a stomach of iron. All the charm of foot fungus, the allure of corns and calluses—stop. I’m exciting myself.” Hawkeye cracks in a tone meaning the exact opposite.
A realisation strikes him, and suddenly BJ has a wicked grin, “Let me know how it goes with Frank.”
“BJ, not in front of the Father,” Hawkeye chides, draping an arm around Mulcahy’s shoulders protectively, “breakfast is hard enough to eat as it is, y’know. He’s delicate.” On his last word, he administers a little squeeze to confirm what he’s saying is in jest and that the cleric shouldn’t take offence.
And Mulcahy doesn’t. But he does flick a knowing glance in Hawkeye’s direction, elbows on the table while he cradles his coffee, “Not that delicate.” Flashing Hawkeye a secretive smile before taking a sip. He lets his eyebrows do all the talking.
Hawkeye looks intrigued by the implications, sliding his hand down the priest’s back before returning to what’s left on his tray.
He will be wondering all day if the Priest just flirted with him. It’s undoubtedly left him giddy enough.
“I will be seeing you,” He points a finger in Mulcahy’s face of feigned innocence, “after morning service.”
“It’s a date.” The priest confirms in his little mysterious way, feeling very pleased with himself when Hawkeye and BJ exchange a nonverbal conversation with varying degrees of wide eyes and shrugs.
It’s nice to have a friend. A close friend.
That is how Hawkeye finds himself with Mulcahy’s naked Ped Fecundis on his lap, not at all uncomfortable that Radar is in the tent with them, but also wishing he wasn’t. Hawkeye is on his best, rigid and frigid behaviour since he’s stuck with a supervisor (and he doesn’t mean the portrait of Jesus staring in his direction from the altar in the corner).
Which makes it all the more compelling when Father Mulcahy is not.
“You have a lovely touch…” His legs are awash in the electric shocks of the doctor fingering through his toes. The priest gives him a sly-eyed look that’s more human than holy. Hawkeye recognises it immediately, having seen the same expression on a number of nurses in the past.
So Mulcahy had been flirting this morning.
What an interesting development…he’ll allow it, letting the chaplain lead the way.
“Never took a lesson.” Hawkeye dares to flirt back, using the exact words the chaplain had shared yesterday during their game of golf. It’s a strategic measure that says I haven’t forgotten you but downplays it in front of the kid.
“I've often thought, with your gentleness, your compassion…”
This feeling of Hawkeye's attention, it’s like standing in the sun and feeling the warm light on his face for the first time.
“I believe you'd have made a good priest…” There’s a sense he’s looking for something, trying to garner a specific reaction or phrase from the doctor. He’s over the moon to feel Hawkeye’s hands on him again. It’s like when he gets too comfortable during poker games; alcohol causes those opportunities for lapses in judgment. What a wonder Hawkeye gives him the same feeling.
This is fine. Hawkeye can handle this with direct eye contact and a strained smile despite his heart rate charging a mile a minute. “I'm too crazy about neckties.” He wants to say nooses because this is a slow yet deliciously painful death.
Time for a subject change; keep it professional.
“How long have you had these feet, Father?”
“Well, they were original equipment.”
It’s always a pleasure and delight when Mulcahy plays along with Hawkeye’s comedic bits. It slightly lessens the heated tension between them, not that Radar even notices the flirting between the two men.
“Make a note of that. Feet have only had one owner. They're holding up very well.” The meaningful look Mulcahy flicks his way indicates that this would be a very different conversation if Radar weren't present.
Two can play this game.
“Must be all the kneeling.” Hawkeye’s smile is full of intent the cleric can read, finding humour in the doctor’s remark.
Radar definitely heard that one, his eyebrows up and his gaze pointedly down.
“No doubt.” Mulcahy’s gaze trails downwards with consideration, remembering what Hawkeye had said yesterday:
There are other ways to get me on my knees and beg; just ask.
If Radar wasn’t here, well, he might. Just to see if he’d do it, not for any other reason. They could do a round of Hail Marys. It’s the first thing Mulcahy will dedicate himself to after this little interaction he’s willfully orchestrating.
Then Hawkeye notices a scar cresting around Mulcahy’s toe with intrigue, certain he’s looking at teeth marks. He’s never put much stock in palmistry, but this foot reading tells him the priest has a hidden kinky side, and he’s holding the proof of it. He inhales a soft, weak sound at the thought.
“Oh, that,” Mulcahy’s voice is making hard work of sounding nonplussed, light and airy. “My sister bit my toe.” His eyes are a little too wide and innocent, waiting to see if Pierce swallows the lie.
His instinctual reaction is to call Bullcookies because there’s no way that’s the truth. Especially with how Mulcahy’s eyes linger, searching Hawkeye’s face to see if he’d believe such a story.
“Your sister, the nun?”
Hawkeye doesn’t buy it. And now he knows the priest’s tell for lying.
“Now, nun. Then, angry child.”
Yeah. Okay. Sure. “She has quite an overbite.” He says considerately, knowing that he’s insulting someone he presumes Mulcahy had relations with before the addendum of Father to his name.
But still, the priest runs with it in a very BJ-like manner, fabricating some line about how the other children called her ‘Beaver’ and conjuring about how they lied to her about being a good swimmer. Who knows, maybe those parts are genuine after all but the scar…Hawkeye chuckles, learning that this wonderfully glorious man is a beef wellington of dishonesty just like the rest of the common folk.
“Well, no corns, no fungus, no bunions,” He shoots the chaplain a dry look, “just a nun bite.” He says this in a way that indicates that he’s not biting on the tall tale, and Mulcahy knows it.
Washing his hands, Hawkeye finds that he doesn’t want to let it go. He wants to know the true and actual story of that fascinating little ring of marks but deliberates on how he’d facilitate an answer. Can’t be helped, the clock is ticking, and there are so many other toes to tickle before bedtime.
Hawkeye and Radar wrap it up. The former is still distracted enough that when he tosses out the contents of the full water basin, it gives an unsuspecting passerby an impromptu shower, quickly shutting the door with mischievous guilt to see if Radar and Mulcahy bore witness to his mishap and share in the accidental jacknapery.
Of course, the priest hides his smile behind his fingertips as if he and Hawkeye are sharing a secret. Perhaps they are, and it has nothing to do with the basin in Hawkeye’s hand.
He shrugs off the mistake, flashing a look that leaves Mulcahy shaking his head with a smile before he follows Radar back out to the compound. Mulcahy has finished putting both of his green socks back on when his door opens a second time. “Forget something?” He asks, poised to remove his socks again.
“No-yes-I…” The doctor’s eyes narrow in thought, leaning back into the chaplain’s tent. The persistent question is on the tip of his tongue, but he can’t force the question. “Something you said a while back when we were watching Radar’s home movie is bothering me.”
Mulcahy’s forehead wrinkles, “Oh?” trying to remember what he could’ve mentioned that would have stuck in Hawkeye’s craw for so long.
“I’ve never mistaken you for absent. Not once.”
How could he? Hawkeye can feel where Mulcahy is at all times. His sincerity echoes between them in the small tent for a meaningful beat. They search for answers in each other’s faces.
It’s a sweet thing to hear, indeed. Nothing can stop the glow that turns on inside the chaplain. There’s an unnamable urge in his chest, a desire to…well, to find ways to spend more time with his new friend.
His official close friend.
His voice wilts, the doctor’s name already out of his mouth when he realises he doesn’t know what to say but feels all of Hawkeye’s attention on him.
“I..well, that is to say, that–” His brain feverishly trying to fabricate something, if even just to have Hawkeye stay for a few more precious seconds, “If there’s anything you can teach me to do in the OR so that I can provide more meaningful assistance…I’d appreciate the effort.”
Hawkeye tilts his head. The chaplain’s expression is open and eager like before, except it doesn’t feel like he’s telling a lie, more like he’s searching for something and doesn’t know how to ask.
“Yeah, sure,” Hawkeye caps his suspicion, “we can do that. Just follow me, kid. We’ll have you in a nurse’s outfit in no time.” The doctor winks on his way out, his chest fuzzy with a myriad of emotions.
Mulcahy done up like a nurse. Perish the thought, Hawkeye.