Chapter Text
BJ thinks he’d prefer the bear Hawkeye had been a few weeks ago when Mulcahy had been getting some rest and resurrection in Seoul to whatever it is he’s dealing with now. The chaplain’s behaviour isn’t much more of a comfort either, the pair circling each other like snarling tigers trapped in a too-small cage.
It feels like the entire camp has imploded, shrinking and folding over on itself without Hawkeye’s boisterous pranks and hyena laughter to blow it back up and out into size.
Even Mucahy’s reliably bright charm and level-headedness have muted considerably. He makes an effort to spend most of his time off the compound helping the Sisters with their orphanage, and his absence is felt all over the unit. Daily services are postponed until further notice.
Hawkeye eats, showers, and sleeps. He’s kicked up production of the gin still too, drinking enough to border on concerning, but always clear-headed enough to work long shifts in the OR, but it’s undoubtedly unsustainable.
Mulcahy keeps scarce whenever he’s in the hospital, BJ has noticed. The Father has to be physically pulled into the OR on those rare occasions, preferring to keep his work isolated to pre- or post-op and always in the wind whenever the doctors wander into either.
To say it’s uncomfortable is an understatement.
Their poker game had been the last real interaction the pair had together with any sense of normalcy, back when Potter had enlisted his surgeons to play nice with Frank when Houlihan had been at a Nurse’s Seminar.
Of course, it was easy to be in a good mood when winning as much as Father Mulcahy. “Ahh, come to Papa!” he grinned. He collected his winnings while Hawkeye watched him across the table, taking the cleric’s exclamation for everything it didn’t mean and allowing his mind to ferment with filthy things.
“Where’d you learn to play poker, Father?” BJ asked, as impressed with Mulcahy’s skill as he was disappointed in his losses.
“Eddie Bertolucci.”
There’s something about how he had smiled and raised his eyebrows when Mulcahy said the name that made Hawkeye ripple with instant dislike.
Hawkeye snarked at the smile put on the cleric’s face by somebody else, “Knew him well.” Very well, if Mulcahy’s delight was anything to judge by. “First man to ride a caraway seed down the alimentary canal,” the doctor snipped dryly. If anyone was going to be responsible for Mulcahy grinning like that, it ought to be Hawkeye and no one else.
Mulcahy refused to be put out, swinging back at him with bright and easy charm, “Actually, he was a mailman. When he passed the civil service, I blessed his feet.” He smiled again at the memory.
How infuriating. But that time, Hawkeye saw something apparent to no one else at the poker table in that smile. A flicker of coyness made his gut churn with the tide of jealousy, and he dreadingly recalled the scar on Mulcahy’s foot.
Perhaps the two were related, perhaps not—but the thought was enough to leave his mouth bitter for the rest of the game. He made it his job to avoid the chaplain’s gaze, afraid of what he’d find in those blue eyes he could feel following his every move. It didn't help that Hawkeye’s ire was continuously heightened by Frank’s drunken interference and ungodly knack for winning.
Loosened by liquor and loss as they played late into the night, Hawkeye took the risk when he asked, “Father, would you pull your collar over your ears? I have a few filthy words to say,” raising his eyebrows when his mind briefly segued to a few dirty things that would make his loss feel sweeter. Things involving pulling a collar off with his teeth and what to do with the sensitive skin underneath.
It’s driving him crazy, this close proximity laced with an undeniable awkwardness between them. Hawkeye and Mulcahy were locked in a circle neither one knew how to break, each figuring the other had created the distance between them in the first place.
“Winner buys drinks!” Hawkeye shouted, sensing an opportunity to be close to the chaplain with the buffer of people and to drink Frank’s winnings since the major was too thoroughly soused to know better.
“Hold on to your hymn book, Father!” BJ called behind him when he and Hawkeye sandwiched Major Burns between them so he couldn’t say no. “We need your divine musical talents at the officers club. Your heavenly harmonies could turn our empty pockets into…someone else buying the wine," BJ invited. He escorts Frank from The Swamp when he sees Hawkeye has decided to loiter outside.
“Hawkeye,” Mulcahy tipped his white Panama hat respectfully when he stepped outside to find the doctor had waited for him. It was a promising sign that perhaps things between them were on the mend and was enough to make the cleric smile.
Hawkeye’s hands were stuffed in his pockets. He kicked idly at the dirt, hoping some overturned rock could tell him what to say. "Well, it's been a hot minute since our paths crossed, hasn't it?" as if they hadn’t just played four hours of poker in the same tent.
"My heartfelt apologies. Responsibilities within the camp and the orphanage have left me with limited opportunities for social interactions as of late."
“Unless it’s poker,” he prodded flatly, looking for a reaction that met his same level of long-suffering frustration.
Mulcahy’s lips pressed into a thin, flat line at the accusation, half tempted to tell the surgeon the only reason he had made time in the first place was having heard Hawkeye would be there. “I wouldn’t have made the effort for a different host,” he clipped stiffly, hoping that he conveyed enough without it being too much.
But Hawkeye was in a mood, writhing in gin and jealousy. While a remark like that would usually soften him, the doctor was blinded by his bitterness, feeling his losses in more than just his wallet. “Sounds like you made the effort for Eddie Bertolucci.” He said the name in a mocking whine while he cringed in distaste.
Mulcahy stopped short in their stroll towards the officers club, a coldness freezing in his chest at Hawkeye’s tone. "And what, in no uncertain terms, on earth are you insinuating by that?"
"Do you make it a habit to hand out foot blessings like candy, or is that your go-to strategy for making bedtime arrangements?"
Hawkeye regretted it the second he said it, seeing a look of hurt so painful on the chaplain’s face it reflected in Hawkeye’s body instantly.
He might as well have slapped the priest instead and saved them both the trouble.
Mulcahy’s heart burned painfully. He remembered their moment alone in his tent when he had so gently washed and massaged the surgeon’s feet out of what he’d only allow himself to call brotherly love with a dangerous tenderness.
The chaplain’s face drained white while his mouth fell open in shock at such an allegation. When his brain finally reconnected, his face flushed a sudden furious red.
“How dare you!” he rage-whispered, getting right in Hawkeye’s face, aware enough to ensure he didn’t make a scene or let his fury rise to heights that would attract attention. "I will not tolerate this baseless defamation of my character! Your words are a disgraceful distortion of my vocation,” he stabbed a finger into Hawkeye's sunken chest with each emphasised word, “and to twist my spiritual duties into such a vulgar accusation is beyond disrespectful! Such an insinuation is utterly offensive, and I demand an immediate retraction! My responsibilities are rooted in compassion and faith, not the perverse absurdity you suggest!"
The private treasure of a snatched night together, Hawkeye trusting and vulnerable under his hands. It was something he often recalled, losing himself in the memory of their intimacy and, in more private moments, flaming when he remembered sounds Hawkeye had made under each touch. And for something so tenderly cherished to be compared to how Hawkeye treated sex as casually as a handshake was beyond inconceivable—it was injurious.
Mulcahy waited a moment, hoping for an apology or recognition that Hawkeye leapt over the line for a reason he’d explain. Still, all the chaplain received in return was a downcast expression in an unsettled quiet.
He can’t stand the hurt swelling in his chest.
“Your presence is a constant irritant right now, and I'm close to my breaking point,” he huffed and turned sharply on his heel. “I promised BJ music, and I think some piano playing will do me good, but please keep your distance from me for the foreseeable future,” Mulcahy all but spat as he separated himself from the one person he never wanted to be too far from.
Seated at the piano, it took the pastor a moment to adjust, still incensed. His distraction was evident in a few off-key notes that soured the song in the chaplain’s ears, but eventually, Mulcahy fell into piano playing with a much-needed light-heartedness. He allowed himself to be entertained by how Radar engaged Kellye in an upbeat dance and smiled when he heard how the nurse complimented the corporal’s improved skill.
The music proved a vital diversion, easing Mulcahy’s anger for a time. He could still feel the occasional forlorn glance on his back when Hawkeye at the other end of the bar looked his way, but the doctor remained too tongue-tied to do anything about it. Too many losses in one night to risk another.
Even when Frank, in his drunken dancing stupor, spun into a slot machine and fell to the floor, Mulcahy watched without intervention as Hawkeye crouched over the collapsed Major.
That was how they had left it.
Preoccupied with business at the orphanage, it wasn’t until after the fact Mulcahy learned how Hawkeye and Hunnicutt had ended up at the front lines to retrieve Frank. When Kellye had told him he had just about turned and rushed out of post-op to double-check the surgeon was alright, but slowed when he realised that wasn’t his place anymore. It couldn’t be.
Not only did he feel entitled to an apology, he wouldn’t approach the doctor until one was offered as a marker that their future interactions would be safer. He knows it’s prideful to deny Hawkeye the attention of their friendship, but what the doctor had said cut Mulcahy so profoundly he was wary of a second round—and what would spill out of him if one happened.
Heart heavy, he sent up a brief prayer of thanks for everyone’s return and resumed his work, counting down the hours until he could leave the 4077 again and abandon the ghost of Hawkeye behind him.
It’s days later when at breakfast Potter mentions Captain Nick Saunders needs hands up at his aid station on the front lines. Hawkeye is the first to volunteer without letting the Colonel finish his request, dying for any reason to get out of the MASH unit that, at every twist and turn, reminds him of Mulcahy in one way or another and just how badly he’s damaged their friendship.
The chaplain looks up to witness Hawkeye’s haste, letting the brim of his hat shade his eyes and gets no acknowledgement in return, just the sight of the surgeon shoving as much food into his mouth as quickly as possible before fleeing the tent. Even through the stalemate of their angry silent treatment, it still hurts to see him go.
May the Lord, the dawn from on high who breaks upon us, turn His face toward you and guide your feet into the way of peace, now and forever. Peace be with you.
It’s only for a day—Hawkeye should be back by lunchtime tomorrow—but it still makes the Chaplain’s stomach twist in unease. Or maybe that’s Igor’s food. It’s hard to tell.
He hears the Jeep start outside, the wheels kicking up dust as Hawkeye drives away.
There’s a moment when he passes the mess tent; a millisecond of an eye touch between them, Mulcahy feels lance through his heart before Hawkeye is gone, headed for the danger of the front lines.
Let us entrust he who is leaving to the hands of the Lord. Let us pray that He will give them a prosperous journey and that as he travels, he will experience God's own goodness in the hospitality he gives and receives to those he meets; that he will greet the wounded and afflicted with kindness and know how to comfort and help them.
Mulcahy keeps the blessing to himself, the strength of his faith leaving his heart sore when he silently adds a personal request against his ethics.
And please, Lord, bring him back home in one piece. Amen.
He’s not brave enough to ask bring him back to me, but the intent is still very much there.
BJ watches their non-interaction, shaking his head, wondering how the two most brilliant men in the unit are also the bottom-of-the-barrel stupidest. He sighs, throwing down his scrambled egg-laden fork in despair.
“You gonna eat that?” Radar asks politely.
The surgeon shakes his head again, “You’re welcome to it.” He bumps the tray in the corporal’s direction, suffocating with the melancholy clouding Mulcahy, the same heaviness BJ chokes under whenever he’s around Hawkeye lately. He can’t catch a break to save his life. “My hunger seems to have taken an unscheduled leave of absence." He wishes he could too.
"Forgive me, dear companions, for I am compelled to depart. The orphanage requires my immediate attention and care."
He watches the priest vacate with a sigh, must be a real treat, having the liberty to up and leave whenever the wind changes.
It’s lunchtime the following day, and Hawkeye has yet to return.
Potter mentions this at the mess table but confirms Captain Saunders did release the surgeon and should be on his way back. “No need to worry,” he says, looking very much like a father anxiously anticipating his son’s return, “I’m sure he’s found himself a distraction,” thinking of the many temptations that line the way back to the MASH Unit. They are not quite the plethora Seoul offers, but they’re there when one knows where to look.
Mulcahy chews his lip until it bleeds, wondering if Potter is so concrete in his confidence; why did he bother mentioning it anyway?
He feels a light touch on his shoulder when they break apart, returning their empty meal trays.
"Don't fret, Father.” BJ’s smile is more reassuring than Potter’s thinly veiled concern. “Back when he first fetched me from the airstrip, we had a bit of a detour helping out some folks. He'll be back in a jiffy."
It’s what the chaplain wants to hear, but not entirely what he wants to happen. He keeps himself in strict quarantine when he knows Hawkeye is lurking about the compound, and the cleric can’t say he hates the freedom of space he’s had lately.
Be cautious with your words, he thinks, keeping a polite, plastic smile on his face. Commitments that cannot be fulfilled can bring immense pain to the heart and wear away at the soul.
The priest stares at him momentarily, unable to feel the reassuring warmth of BJ’s smile. He doesn’t like how BJ’s expression suggests he’s trying to say more. The fact that he’s said anything at all is already uncomfortable and claustrophobic.
Mulcahy has to get out of here, that omnipresent ghost materialising over his shoulder with black hair and blue eyes so bright they can see past his bones without even trying.
It’s a moment of déjà vu all over again: the cleric making half-hearted excuses for his departure towards the orphanage, and BJ bitterly envying how the cleric retains the luxury of up and leaving whenever the mood strikes.