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“Oh my God, he’s as drunk as a skunk!”
Trapper was looking wide-eyed with amazement and surprise at the camp priest slouched over the table with a half-full glass of gin in his hand, giggling like a little kid over the joke Hawkeye just told, which wasn’t even that funny if they were being honest, and even Hawkeye would agree with that. He shared a look of bewilderment with his best friend, both of them smiled though with amusement at the sight before them, because how often would they ever see this again?
“Father, maybe you should lay off the booze,” Hawkeye reached forward and plucked the glass from between the chaplain’s fingers.
Mulcahy sat up somewhat, reaching out for it, “No, ‘m not— not finished.”
“Oh, you’re finished,” Hawkeye scolded, setting the glass behind him on the still stand, “I’m confiscating your alcohol rights, so that means no dipping into the sacramental wine when you get back to your tent.”
The priest hiccupped, “Th-that is for my services only.”
“Oh, your services? And what kind of services do you offer, Father?” Trapper teased, swirling his gin within its glass and taking a sip.
“Well, you would know if you ever came to any ‘a 'em,” He pouted, slumping onto the table again right after and groaning with discomfort, “Oh, my head hurts…”
Both men had to stifle their laughter, and it was Hawkeye who sat forward, folding his arms over the table and resting his chin on them to peer at the chaplain just inches from his own face now, “Yeah, that’ll happen when you drink gin like juice.”
“Perhaps—” He got cut off by hiccupping again, “Perhaps I should head back to my quarters… for the night.”
“Sounds like a good idea,” Trapper nodded in agreement, tipping his head back to finish off his gin, setting the glass back down on the table a bit hard and making the priest flinch at the sound and wince, groaning again and rubbing at his temple.
“Here, I’ll help you back,” Hawkeye scooted his chair back and got to his feet, stretching his arms out until he heard his back pop satisfactorily.
“I can do it myself,” Mulcahy assured with a certain assertiveness, waving a hand around and clumsily sitting up, scooting his chair back and hands gripping the edge of the table as tried to get the room to stop spinning.
Hawkeye and Trapper shared another look, unsure about his confidence in being able to walk in a straight line. Hawkeye stepped around the small table towards him, “And I can score with nurse Paisley. C’mon, up, up.”
Trapper chuckled thinking about how many times Hawkeye’s struck out with that particular nurse, and he laughed even harder watching his best friend trying to get the drunk chaplain to help him at all in getting to his feet. It was very entertaining to watch, even as Hawkeye grumbled in complaint at how uncooperative he was.
“C’mon Father, I know your legs are jelly but try and put some effort into this,” He had his hands under his arms, tugging him upright and having to catch him when he stumbled back against his chest.
“Whoa,” Mulcahy said when his foot caught on his ankle, and when he met the chest behind him, he peered up and upon seeing who it was he smiled, “Oh, hello Hawkeye!”
Trapper burst out laughing, kicking the chair Mulcahy had previously been seated in on accident and making the chaplain and surgeon flinch at the suddenness of the sound. Upon seeing Trapper laughing hysterically, it made Mulcahy’s giggles start back up, and before long he was laughing as hard as the doctor was.
Hawkeye rolled his eyes but couldn’t help the amused smile that perked up the corners of his mouth, “As entertaining as all of this is, I think subjecting our poor chaplain to the horrors of our nightly activities has persisted long enough. Trap.”
He tipped his imaginary hat before grabbing Mulcahy’s wrist and pulling his arm around his shoulders, having to crouch down sort of awkwardly for it to even work; the chaplain was a good few inches shorter than him. Trapper bid them farewell, waving and still giggling, “So long, Father! Hope your head feels better!”
Mulcahy called something back to the doctor and it made Trapper’s laughter kick right back up again, but Hawkeye didn’t really hear it, too focused on kicking the door open and trying to balance the priest’s dead weight hanging off of his side. Once outside and with Trapper’s laughter dying in the background, he guided the giggly man stumbling awkwardly towards his tent for some rest.
“As fascinating as you are intoxicated, remind me to monitor your drinking next time,” He told him, knowing full well the man wouldn’t remember anything that happened tonight by morning.
“Hey, I can— I can handle my alcohol,” His speech slurred, and he giggled before slumping forward again, making Hawkeye stumble and have to rush to catch Mulcahy before he fell into the dirt.
“Yeah, clearly,” He retorted sarcastically, adjusting the man’s arm over his shoulders and pressing forward.
One second giggling and all smiles, the next wincing and groaning in discomfort, his head lulled against Hawkeye’s shoulder, “My head hurts…”
“Well, you had a lot to drink,” Hawkeye reminded him.
He felt the chaplain shake his head, “It hurt before…”
Hawkeye cast a glance down at him, and then sighed, “Well, the shelling was only two days ago, and you hurt your head. You should feel better soon… But if your head hurt already, getting sloshed probably wasn’t the way to search for a cure.”
“I know…” He grumbled, turning his face to press it against Hawkeye’s arm, “‘m so stupid…”
So, he’s one of those drunks. Hawkeye smiled at him and patted his lower back where his hand laid, gently guiding him forward, “If getting drunk means you're stupid, then I guess we’re all guilty of that one. You’re stressed, Father, it’s okay to try and relieve that like this every now and again.”
He groaned again, “Don’ feel good…”
“So you’ve mentioned,” Hawkeye chuckled, adjusting his arm over his shoulders again, but jostling the priest was not a good idea in hindsight. He felt Mulcahy stiffen under his hands, and peering down at him he saw his face had drained of all color and become as white as a sheet. He raised an eyebrow in concern, “Father, are you alright?”
He shook his head in response, “Gonna be sick—”
And on cue he was dry heaving. Hawkeye’s eyes widened and he pulled the chaplain’s arm from his shoulders and turned him, but it was quick when the man fell onto his knees and leaned forward, hands in the dirt and body quaking as he gagged and heaved, throwing up right outside Major Houlihan’s tent. Hawkeye dropped to a knee next to him, patting his back to soothe him through it.
“The tragedy of being the life of the party is truly heartbreaking,” Hawkeye joked, but he didn’t smile, just rubbed his back as he emptied his stomach. The chaplain’s hand came up to grab at his face, and it only took a second for the surgeon to realize he was adjusting his glasses so they wouldn’t fall into the puddle of vomit underneath him, “Here, I’ll hold onto those.”
He took the glasses from his face and folded them, dipping them into his shirt pocket for safe keeping before returning his hand to his back. Mulcahy emptied his stomach, resorting to dry heaving, and by the time he was finished Hawkeye was scooting closer, “Feeling better?”
He didn’t reply, just gasped and tried to get his breathing back to normal and his stomach to stop hurting. Hawkeye continued to rub circles in his back, even when the door to Major Houlihan’s quarters slammed open, and what a surprise, it wasn’t even the head nurse that stood before them.
“What the hell is going on out here?!”
Hawkeye lifted his head to take in the disheveled figure of Frank Burns, and he smirked at catching the man red handed. Then again, the Major’s annoyance overtook his ability to think clearly once again, because if he had been thinking at all he wouldn’t have stormed out of Margaret’s tent looking like that at all.
“Frank, I knew you were close by! Your aura is so pungent that it made him sick!” He’d be a millionaire by now if he got paid for how often he annoyed Frank Burns on a daily basis; he’d be making overtime now.
Frank’s face burned red with anger as it often did when he couldn’t think of a retort, his lips - or lack thereof - pursing into a somehow thinner line and eyes narrowing, “Oh… Shut up! Soldier, on your feet!”
He reached down and grabbed Mulcahy by the arm, yanking him back to sit him upright so he could scold him, only to blanch once he saw who the sick man was, “Father Mulcahy?!”
The chaplain groaned in discomfort, wincing as his stomach pain persisted. Frank released his arm, expression one of shock as he took in the fact that it was their priest who was drunk off his ass, and before long Margaret Hoolihan became his plus-one. She stumbled out of her tent, folding her robe across her chest and crossing her arms, glaring, “What is going on out here?!”
“Oh, Margaret, nice of you to join us,” Hawkeye grinned charmingly, hand subconsciously reaching out to go against Mulcahy’s chest to keep him from collapsing forward into his own vomit.
“Pierce got Father Mulcahy drunk!” Frank accused, his face turning red again.
Margaret gaped, taken aback, “Pierce! Have you no decency?!”
“Hey, all I did was invite him over for a few drinks, how was I supposed to know he was as much of a lightweight as Frank?”
“Hey!”
“Oh, it’s no secret, Frank,” Hawkeye then looked between the two lovebirds, smiling that mischievous grin of his up at the both of them, “So, do you have room for two more? We could make it a double date.”
Frank’s cheeks puffed out like a hamster as he huffed, fists clenching in his anger, “You’re disgusting!”
Margaret huffed and spun around to head back inside, not saying another word, perhaps embarrassed at being caught, as if any of what these two got up to was a secret at all. Even Mulcahy, as naive as he could be, knew about them. Frank just stood there and fumed a bit longer, glaring at Hawkeye until the chaplain started mumbling.
“Made a mess…” He grumbled, sounding a bit sad now as he tried teetering forward again, but Hawkeye caught him before he could even make progress. Mulcahy glanced up at Frank, still without his glasses and squinting somewhat, “‘M sorry, Mommy…”
Hawkeye burst out laughing, and Frank just looked all the more pissed off, “I’m not your Mommy! Now I better see this cleaned up! I don’t care how bad you feel!”
Mulcahy flinched at the shouting, his head still hurting, and he groaned and leaned into Hawkeye. The surgeon threw an arm around his shoulders to offer comfort, scolding Frank sarcastically, “Yelling at a priest? Oh Frank, how you’ve fallen.”
“I-I—” He stammered, then directed his anger towards his fellow surgeon, “Then you clean it up!”
He turned on his heel, preparing to stomp back inside, but he slipped in the vomit and fell right into it. Hawkeye leaned back, pulling Mulcahy with him to stay out of the splash zone, and he held back his laughter to joke, “Or you could clean it up. Always so helpful, Frank.”
Frank looked like he was about to cry, and this probably just ruined his romantic candlelit dinner with Margaret, but it was no skin off Hawkeye’s back. He pulled Mulcahy to his feet, steadying him and patting his chest for comfort, and then he tipped his imaginary hat to Frank, “Major Burns.”
The so-called surgeon peered up at him as Hawkeye went about finishing his venture to the chaplain’s quarters, and he shouted after him, “You planned this, didn’t you?!”
“Oh, it was all a part of my evil scheme!” He called back over his shoulder.
“I’ll get you for this!”
His voice was shrill, his emotions working at him, but Hawkeye held his laughter down, “I’m looking forward to it!”
He didn’t hear him say anything else, so he walked faster. Mulcahy wasn’t necessarily heavy, but he wasn’t offering much assistance in walking with his own legs, so he was starting to weigh down on Hawkeye’s shoulders and back. He adjusted his arm around him, trying to make this more comfortable for both of them, but struggling to accomplish that.
“A little help moving your feet would be much appreciated, Father,” He told him, half sarcastic and half genuinely annoyed.
He grumbled incoherently for a moment, and Hawkeye couldn’t make out even a single word until the last couple tumbled from his mouth in a jumble, “‘M sorry…”
Hawkeye jostled him again, squeezing his arm, “No need to sound so upset about it.”
Mulcahy continued to mumble words the other man couldn't make out, but soon enough they arrived at his tent, chaplain painted in white paint above the door right next to the cross. Hawkeye once again pulled the man up as he started to slide towards the floor again, grunting at the struggle and clumsily throwing the door open. He pulled Mulcahy inside, the door swinging shut behind them.
“Alright, here we are. La casa de Mulcahy,” And then he unceremoniously dropped the priest onto his cot, watching him limply land on his side with his left arm tucked awkwardly underneath him, and his hat halfway falling off his head.
Hawkeye was tired too and he wanted to retire to his own bed, but he wasn’t about to leave Mulcahy here all by himself when he’s drunk off his ass. He did need to leave momentarily though, but just briefly, “I’m gonna go get you some water to wash out the vomit taste in your mouth. Don’t. Move.”
He backed up slowly, watching the priest and seeing if he would react, but all he got was a mumbled, “...Okay…”
He took his lack of movement as a good sign, realizing he was much too tired and drunk to walk at this point anyway, so he turned and left his tent and went to go and get him a refreshment that wouldn’t further his liver damage. He grabbed a mug from the mess tent and then filled it up with water from the hose, making his way back to the chaplain’s quarters with haste.
Stepping back inside he was happy to see that Mulcahy was right where he left him, half conscious and mumbling nonsense on the bed. He set the mug on the desk briefly, needing to help the priest get comfortable first.
“Alright Francis, c’mon, up,” He grabbed his arms and pulled him into an upright position, taking off his hat and setting it aside before finally handing him his glasses back; he shoved the mug towards him next, “Here, drink this. It’s water.”
“Okay…” He mumbled and he drank as Hawkeye pressed the mug to his lips, helping him get some of the cool water down the hatch, and he seemed relieved to have the foul taste of vomit and alcohol off of his tongue. When the mug was removed, he smacked his lips and then blearily looked up at the doctor, eyebrows furrowed with confusion, “You called me Francis.”
Hawkeye set the mug aside, keeping a hand on the chaplain’s shoulder to keep him upright, and a smile pulled at the corners of his mouth, “Well, that is your name, isn’t it?”
“Yes…” He answered, dipping his head to look down at his feet that were blurry, and finally he slid his glasses back over his eyes, “But no one calls me by my name, just my mother, but she called me Johnny.”
“So, your sister called you Father?” Hawkeye joked, slowly removing his hand from Francis’ shoulder and kneeling in front of him, unlacing his boots so he could remove them.
Francis chuckled at the question and shook his head, “No, she called me Francis, so did my brothers… but they had a bunch of names for me.”
Hawkeye laughed again, “Brothers are like that, I suppose. I wouldn’t know though, I’m an only child, so I’ll have to take my word for it.”
Francis frowned, pouting almost as he continued to ramble on, “They were so… mean.”
“Older brothers?”
Francis nodded, “Mhm. I’m the youngest, but Kathy is only two years older.”
“You two close?” He was just trying to make conversation with the drunk man, but he couldn’t deny that he was genuinely curious.
Francis nodded again, “She’s the only one who sends me letters.”
Hawkeye looked up at that, finding that a bit odd, “Your brothers don’t speak with you?”
The chaplain shrugged, “Not recently…”
“Your folks still around?” He may be prodding too much, but Francis didn’t seem to mind.
“Yes… We’re not close,” He admitted, and Hawkeye vaguely remembers him mentioning something about his mother cursing at him and his sister as children when they ate an entire pie by themselves, but he didn’t think much of it at the time. He’d just been narrowly missed by a missile and in shock, he had just been rambling much like he is now.
“Oh, come on now, they gotta be proud of you,” Hawkeye said as he removed one of Francis’ boots, “You grew up to be a priest! That’s a pretty big deal.”
He shrugged loosely, much like a small child would when they were upset and refusing to say why, “No… I was never good enough…”
Hawkeye looked up at him, but Francis’ eyes were focused on his hands in his lap, fingers twitching and prodding at each other. He figured he probably shouldn’t keep talking about this, Francis was drunk, and this was something he never spoke about when sober, but Hawkeye couldn’t help himself from asking more, “Never good enough for your parents?”
Francis shook his head, “Never good enough for anybody, nobody at home, and nobody in Philadelphia. That’s why I joined the Army.”
Hawkeye had always meant to ask just why Father Francis Mulcahy had enlisted. He didn’t seem the type to willingly involve himself in war, he was much too kind and gentle, and he wanted to go home just as much as the next guy, hating this war and everything it stood for more than anything. He’d never asked though because as much as Hawkeye was blunt, he’d always had a hard time encroaching on topics such as these with Francis.
“Thought you’d be more help over here, huh?” He removed his other boot and set them both aside just beneath Francis’ cot.
The chaplain nodded in response to his question, “I thought so, but… I don’t know if I’m offering much over here, either.”
Hawkeye frowned and with a shake of his head dismissed what Francis had said, “Francis, you offer more than any one of us here, believe me.”
Francis furrowed his eyebrows, finally lifting his head to peer down at Hawkeye who was still on his knees in front of him. Francis’ eyelids were droopy with exhaustion, eyes glazed over in a drunken haze, but there was some sort of clarity in them, like he might actually remember this in the morning, “How so?”
Hawkeye smiled again, light and gentle as he explained, “Well, despite all of this madness we’re subjected to day in and day out, you somehow keep your kindness and your general trust and love of people, and without that I honestly don’t know how this camp would be faring. You’re the glue that holds us all together.”
Francis just stared at him, almost like he didn’t believe him, so Hawkeye put a hand on his knee and continued, “You watch us piece kids back together, you pray for them, you mourn for them, you write their families when they pass. You bring the wounded hope, and you bring us hope. I was never a religious guy, Father, but sometimes you make me believe in Heaven, because only somewhere as holy as Heaven could bless us with you.”
When he finished, he was met with more silence, but now it was because Francis really didn’t know what to say, but more than that it might have been because his eyes were suddenly wet, and his lip was trembling as he tried to hold everything back. Hawkeye suddenly found himself dealing with an emotional drunk.
He searched for the right words to say; he was never all that good at dealing with people crying, not because he was emotionally incapable, but because he didn’t know if he ever had the right things to say to offer any comfort. Pathetic right? He’s a doctor and he can’t console a friend. Then again, he’s a doctor for the body, he’s never had to mend a mind.
“Father, hey, come on now. I—”
Before he knew it, he had an armful of chaplain. Francis lurched forward - more so stumbled - from his cot, arms locking around Hawkeye’s neck. The surgeon was surprised, he had to admit. As sensitive as Mulcahy had always been, he had a certain toughness to him, he had to in order to do what he did. He never would have expected him to jump into an embrace so willy-nilly, the only person around here who would was probably Klinger, but he supposes if anyone else would be so openly vulnerable emotionally, it would be the Father.
Hawkeye didn’t really know what to do at first, he’d rarely ever been in a situation like this before. He’d hugged Trapper, but usually in celebration from a prank going right, or after pooling their poker earnings together. He’d hugged Radar before, as much as the young Corporal hated people touching him, but the kid needed a hug sometimes. Anyone else he embraced were nurses on passionate nights, something he kept hush-hush about around Francis, but the priest was no doubt knowledgeable of.
“Whoa now, Father. What would the other girls say if they saw us like this?” Hawkeye joked, still holding his arms out awkwardly, unsure of how to move forward, “You know how they gossip. Everyone from here to Seoul would be talking about our little fling, and you have quite the reputation to upkeep.”
It was all joking, he smiled while he said it, but he had the mind to drop the joshing all together when Francis suddenly sobbed against his shoulder. Hawkeye’s smile dropped immediately, concern contorting his features as finally he relaxed his arms and let them wrap around the crying chaplain clinging to him. Still, he tried to joke, it might make this a little less awkward on his part, “If you don’t like my jokes, you could just tell me, no need for the waterworks.”
Still, Francis didn’t say anything. He was much too busy crying over… well, Hawkeye wasn’t even really sure. He squeezed his arms around the sobbing man, patting his back and thinking of something else to say, but nothing was coming to mind. So instead, he got his feet underneath him and stood about halfway, keeping his arms around Francis but moving them both from their awkward position with Hawkeye squatted on the floor and Francis halfway off of his cot crumpled in his arms.
Hawkeye sat on the cot next to the chaplain, turning to him and keeping him close, not holding too tight and allowing Francis to decide when he was ready to pull away. He patted his back again, poking around in his own head to yank out any words of comfort that he could find.
“Hey, come on,” He started, stumbling a bit but pushing forward, “What’s the matter? You can tell dear ‘ol Hawkeye.”
Francis cried for another minute, fingers curling into Hawkeye’s jacket, but it was obvious he was making an active effort to calm himself. He eventually resorted to sniffling, and finally he pulled himself away even though he kept his hands on the surgeon, keeping the fabric of his Army olive drab between his fingers, “Oh dear, that was not very dignified of me, was it?”
Hawkeye just shrugged, “We’re thousands of miles away from home in the middle of hell where body parts are falling all around us, I think being dignified is pretty low on the list of ways we should be acting.”
Francis chuckled at that, but it was sort of humorless, a sort of pity laugh. Pity for Hawkeye or himself, the surgeon couldn’t be sure. Francis cleared his throat, avoiding looking the other man in the eyes, “I’m very sorry for this. I’ve forgotten how vulnerable I can get under the influence.”
Well, at least he was aware he was drunk. Maybe his emotional breakdown sobered him a little though. Again, Hawkeye shrugged, “It’s no problem, Father. I’m honestly surprised this is the first time I’ve ever seen you so emotional, I would’ve thought you’d be one of the first to break.”
Again, Francis snickered, this time with a shake of his head, “Oh, trust me. I’ve done plenty of crying since I’ve been here.”
Hawkeye felt a weird pain hit his heart at those words. The thought of Francis crying and grieving alone was not a thought he wanted to ever think. He was much too kind and good to bear this weight all on his own. Hawkeye tilted his head, “Oh really?”
Francis nodded, quiet for a second, thinking it over if he should open up. Apparently, he figured Hawkeye was the best person to talk to about this, “The first time I watched you boys in the OR I had to rush out and throw up.”
“Really?” Hawkeye didn’t remember that.
“Yes, and afterwards I just sat outside trying to talk myself into going back in,” He explained, “Colonel Blake came outside after he finished with his patient, and he sat down and talked me through it. He convinced me to keep going. He said it would get easier.”
Yeah, that sounds like Henry, “And did it?”
A brief silence, and then Francis was shaking his head, “No, I just got better at pretending that it did.”
Didn’t they all? Hawkeye shifted on the cot, getting a little more comfortable and leaning closer to Francis without thinking. Others might say they always sat a little too close in the mess tent, that Hawkeye leaned in a little too much when Francis played piano in the officer’s club, that he was just a little bit handsy with the chaplain, grabbing his elbow, throwing an arm around his shoulders, adjusting his jacket or his hat like a doting wife. If Hawkeye noticed this as well, he was very quiet about it. Perhaps he was just pretending he didn’t notice, because then maybe Francis wouldn’t notice either.
“The first time I saw a patient die, you were there trying to get his heart going again. It didn’t work, that’s just how it is sometimes, but… I couldn’t even perform my duties as a priest,” He kept going, his voice beginning to tremble again, “I ran out of post-op, ran around the side of the building to hide, and I cried. I-I felt so horrible, Hawkeye, I failed my duty as a disciple, I should’ve been there guiding that boy towards the light, but-but I– I ran.”
Hawkeye grimaced, somehow leaning even closer, his shoulder against Francis’, hoping that his warmth would bring some comfort to the emotional priest, “I remember that. You came back in and performed the last rights, you still did what you were supposed to do, Father.”
Francis shook his head, “I shouldn’t have run in the first place, Hawkeye.”
Hawkeye tried to catch his eyes, needing to get through to him, “Cut yourself some slack. You may know how to do last rights, but when you became a priest, I know you never thought you’d have to perform them like this. Maybe in a hospital stateside for a sick and dying patient, but not in the middle of a war where kids are getting blown to bits when they should be back home going on first dates to the movies.”
Francis sniffled, bowing his head and running the back of his hand across his eyes, pushing his glasses up and off of his nose for a moment before letting them rest askew back over his blue eyes, “It’s not just that, Hawkeye, I… I still think about running. I may not do it, but I still want to every single time another batch of wounded is rushed in, and every time I have to watch you, and Trapper, and Major Burns, and Colonel Blake cut into them, and every time someone else dies and I have to be the last face they see. I feel like the harbinger of death in this camp, and I never wanted to be responsible for that. I’m supposed to bring peace, you know? Not… this!”
He was huffing by the time he was finished, hands finally releasing Hawkeye and instead waving around anxiously in front of him. His eyes were wide and full of unshed tears, face red with his mix of emotions, and shoulders quaking as his body tried to force more sobs out of him. He stood strong though, stronger than any man Hawkeye had ever known. He admired him for that, always had, but on the other hand he wanted him to cry more because he didn’t deserve to feel all of this hurt. He’d been sitting with this for so long.
He took a deep breath and laughed a broken and humorless laugh, “I probably sound crazy.”
Hawkeye shook his head, “No, not at all. In fact, all of that was probably the sanest string of words I’ve heard since I’ve been here.”
Francis brought his hands up to his head, tangling his fingers in his hair and messing it up as he pushed his hands through it, “I feel like I’m going crazy.”
“That’s the only way you should feel,” Hawkeye started, “If you felt perfectly sane trapped in this hellscape, then you’d really be crazy, but you find horror in the things that you see and you cry for the people experiencing them. You should always feel like running, Francis, and the moment you don’t, well, that’s when you’ve really lost your mind.”
Francis kept his hands in his hair, tugging on his messy blonde-turning-silver locks. He sighed and forced out a laugh that sounded more like a choked sob, “This must look pretty pathetic right? A drunk priest crying over how bad he is at his spiritual duties.”
Hawkeye shook his head, “Frank is pathetic, but you, you’re… you’re human. It’s a nice change of pace,” Francis lifted his head to smile at him a little as Hawkeye finished his sentence, “And if it means anything coming from an agnostic, I think you’re the best damn priest in the world, pardon my language.”
Francis chuckled, and his smile was taking that pain in Hawkeye’s chest and replacing it with warmth. His blue eyes were soft when they caught Hawkeye’s, the drunken haze having somewhat faded, his emotional vulnerability sobering him somewhat despite said vulnerability being caused by the alcohol.
“Thank you, Hawkeye,” He sounded genuine, and if his voice didn’t prove that then his eyes did, “You called me Francis again.”
Hawkeye smiled, a bit sheepish but still showing that teasing quality to it that everything he did possessed, “I’m sorry, is that a problem? I can go back to calling you Father, if you prefer.”
Francis shook his head, “No, that’s quite alright.”
Hawkeye’s grin only grew as he pushed his luck, “Are you sure? I can use some other variations. Pops, Old Man… How’s Daddy sound?”
If Francis had been drinking from the mug of water the surgeon had brought him, he would’ve choked on it, instead though, his face burned, and he cleared his throat “Hawkeye!”
And that’s when Hawkeye burst out laughing. Seeing the chaplain so flustered over some simple playful flirting was enough to tickle his ribs, and once he started laughing, he couldn’t stop. It was for the best anyway, he’d always heard his laughter was contagious after all. Before long, Francis began to giggle, and it bloomed into full blown laughter after a minute, and soon enough the both of them were lying sideways in the cot giggling like a couple of little kids who just told a dirty joke.
When Hawkeye opened his eyes, he found that they somehow ended up with their heads at the foot of the cot, and looking across from himself he saw Francis all curled up with his arms around his midsection laughing hysterically. Was this still the alcohol speaking? Or was he really laughing like this because of some stupid quip Hawkeye had made? He’d have to try out some ridiculous joke on him tomorrow, just to prove that he could make him smile like this on any day. If he’d just learned anything, it’s that Francis deserved nothing less.
Their fit of laughter tapered off after a couple of minutes, and they spent the next minute trying to catch their breaths. Hawkeye pushed his elbow underneath him, leaning on it and peering down at the blonde, and when Francis opened his eyes to look right back up at him is when Hawkeye used his voice again, still a bit bubbly from the laughter, “So, what’ll it be, Father?”
Francis smiled softly, looking rather content now compared to just moments ago when he was ranting until he was out of breath, “I like Francis just fine. It feels more personable. I may be a priest, but… I’d like to be your friend too.”
Hawkeye’s smile was just as soft, well, maybe not quite. Francis had a way to just look so… gentle. Hawkeye was gentle, but only in certain aspects, like when he was doing his job. A doctor had to have a certain touch with people, and he took pride in his bedside manner, but he knew he’d never reach the level of compassion and kindness and overall goodness that Francis Mulcahy possessed, he wasn’t sure anyone could live up to that.
“You are my friend, Francis,” He said, speaking his name like it was poetry, “I wouldn’t have invited you to the Swamp to get shitfaced tonight if you weren’t.”
Francis laughed at that, cutting his eyes away just briefly to stare up at the ceiling. His hands were folded across his stomach, his body exhausted but relaxed and eyelids falling heavy. His hair was a mess, which was a sight to behold. He was always rather particular about how he presented himself, he did have a rather important job here in camp despite how he’d been convincing himself otherwise recently. Paired with the mess of blonde hair, his face was a tinge flushed from the alcohol in his system, and Hawkeye had half the nerve to lean down and kiss that crooked little smile gracing his lips.
No, now wasn’t the time to admit how he felt about the chaplain, he doubted it would ever be. He was a priest, he had sacred vows, and Hawkeye wasn’t about to make him question everything he’d ever known. Besides, it’s not like two guys could just get hitched, that wasn’t even legal, nor socially acceptable. Though, Hawkeye had thought of many ways to get away with being involved with a man, he’d known he’s attracted to them since he was a teenager after all, and he’s never felt ashamed of it.
None of it mattered though. Maybe he’d tell him how he felt when the war ended, and that would probably never happen so at least he didn’t have to worry about ever spilling his guts to the man who had infatuated his every thought for the past couple of months. For now though, this was fine.
“You should sleep, you’re gonna need all your strength to fight off that nasty hangover you’re gonna have in the morning,” Hawkeye said, sitting up and holding out his hands to the blonde still lying upside down in his cot.
Francis blinked as he stared at Hawkeye’s outstretched hands, sighing tiredly and taking ahold of them, allowing the surgeon to pull him upright, “I suppose you’re right. Oh, I hope tomorrow is relatively peaceful, I can already feel a headache coming on.”
Hawkeye chuckled, patting his shoulder once he was sat up, “I’m sure I can scrounge up some aspirin or something like that for you.”
“Oh, no need. Save that for the people who really need it,” Francis held up a hand to dismiss his concern.
Hawkeye had to roll his eyes, “Aspirin is practically made for hangovers, those kids in post-op are on the real good stuff, they don’t want none of that baby painkiller stuff. Trust me, Francis, I can hook you up.”
“Well…” He seemed to genuinely think about it for a moment, “If it wouldn’t be any trouble, I guess it would be alright. But tomorrow, for now I’ll see if sleeping will ward it off.”
“Alright, suit yourself,” Hawkeye stepped back as Francis turned in the cot and started messing with the blanket, fumbling with it a bit as his inebriation still held a bit of control over him despite sobering up a little from ranting and raving. Hawkeye grabbed the chair from Francis’ desk, taking a seat and getting comfortable.
That made Francis curious, and he raised an eyebrow to show that, “What are you doing?”
Hawkeye crossed his arms loosely across his chest and shrugged nonchalantly, “Keeping an eye on you. What kind of doctor would I be if I let my patient choke to death on his own vomit in his sleep?”
Francis rolled his eyes, but his little cheeky smile remained, like he wasn’t really all too bothered by his friend’s shenanigans, “That won’t be necessary.”
“Oh, on the contrary,” Hawkeye said in a very posh sounding English accent. He leaned forward and waved his arms, trying to get Francis to lie down, “Now relax, get comfortable. I’ll be here to keep an eye on you in case you have any bad dreams.”
Again, Francis rolled his eyes, but he did lay down like Hawkeye instructed, “Hawkeye, really. You don’t have to—”
“No, I want to,” He cut him short, smiling kindly at him, “Really, I’m concerned about you. You threw up all on Frank’s shoes outside, it was funny but a lot.”
Francis’ face blanched in horror, “Did I really do that?”
“Yeah,” Sort of, “Don’t worry about it, he needs to wash his feet anyway.”
Francis worried his bottom lip between his teeth, but he was no longer protesting Hawkeye staying, “Well… Alright then, if you’re really that worried then I suppose you could stay.”
“Great!” Hawkeye clapped a little, rocking back in his chair, “Ooh! I can read you a bedtime story! How about the Ten Commandments, Father? I can do the voices.”
Francis clearly had to resist the urge to roll his eyes again, but he couldn’t quite keep his smile suppressed, “No, that’s alright. But… if you really must talk, you can tell me a story about Crabapple Cove?”
Hawkeye’s grin only grew, this time with genuine excitement, “You remembered the name of my hometown? How thoughtful of you.”
“I know where all of my friends are from,” He admitted, “I listen quite well, you know? And you do seem rather proud of your hometown, and I always like hearing your stories from childhood. Tell me one of those.”
He was comfortable under the blanket now, head resting gently on his pillow as he removed his glasses and folded them, clumsily looking for somewhere to put them. Hawkeye took them from him, setting them gently on the desk for safekeeping til morning, “Oh, I got plenty. Let’s see… How about I tell you about this time I went caving to impress a girl and found out I’m claustrophobic? A bit of a horror story.”
Francis chuckled, “As long as it doesn’t bring back traumatic memories for you, Hawkeye.”
He just shook his head, “I couldn’t be scared with you here, Francis.”
The chaplain’s smile could light up the world, it surely did Hawkeye’s. That was enough to get him started. He cleared his throat and launched into a story, and Francis listened for as long as he could before he dozed off to sleep, and Hawkeye just kept on. He’d go all night if it meant Francis would sleep peacefully and feel well in the morning, but soon enough Hawkeye was feeling worn out himself. He made his way to the floor eventually, leaning back against Francis’ cot and getting as comfortable as one could on the ground. He glanced over his shoulder at the sleeping chaplain and offered him one last tired smile before dozing off himself.
“Sweet dreams, Francis.”