Work Text:
You have to understand that none of this would have happened if two highly unusual events had not happened to intersect; Father Mulcahy was drunk, and Hawkeye was happy.
X*X*X*X
Father Mulcahy is very, very drunk.
It’s day three of a ceasefire that seems to be holding; day three of no incoming wounded, day three of a party that flows from Rosie’s to the O club to the Swamp to the mess tent before starting all over again and Hawkeye is right in the middle of it, sometimes bobbing along with the current and sometimes making the waves but always luxuriating in the sensation of floating, surrounded by the smiling faces of these people that he loves to hell and back, making sure that the gin and the cognac and the Nehi keep flowing, the laughs keep coming and the music keeps playing.
Especially the music. One of their patients is a dance hall pianist, his left leg in a cast from his hip to his ankle but his fingers are as nimble as they come and so, for once, Father Mulcahy is out of a job – first ousted from his piano bench and then shooed out from behind the bar where Igor and Klinger are vying for tips. The guy’s good, too, their nimble-fingered patient, going into his second straight hour of showtunes without missing a beat and Hawkeye is in heaven… Heaven…
“…and my heart beats so that I can hardly speak – Father, come on, show us what you’ve got!”
With no piano to play and no bar to tend the priest has been drifting around the room and accepting every drink that Hawkeye puts into his hand, smiling beatific and bright-eyed as the music swells around them and, now, putting down his glass to put his hand into Hawkeye’s to be pulled out into the middle of the floor, giggling like a schoolgirl as Hawkeye twirls him around and then pulls him in close.
“I’m afraid I haven’t done this in quite some time,” he says into Hawkeye’s ear, and Hawkeye wraps his arm around his trim little waist, allowing a silent glow of affection to wash over him as he replies, “Don’t worry, Father, just follow my lead. Heaven, I’m in heaven, and my heart beats so that I can hardly speak…and I seem to find the happiness I seek as we’re out together dancing cheek to cheek.”
Mulcahy laughs again as Hawkeye hams it up, pressing their cheeks together as he leads him through the steps. The other dancing couples have drawn back to give them space and everyone is smiling and cheering. Lorraine Anderson has come over from the 8063rd and she and Margaret have been twirling each other around the dance floor all evening, only stopping now for Margaret to stick her fingers between her lips and whistle as Hawkeye attempts to dip their thoroughly tipsy chaplain. He can see BJ, perched on a barstool, watching him with a smile so warm and so fond it makes Hawkeye’s chest ache and he grins wolfishly back at him as BJ lifts his glass in a toast and Hawkeye’s so caught up in watching him that he and Mulcahy almost crash bodily into Potter and Kellye. The room erupts in laughter and applause as Mulcahy attempts to take a bow, clinging onto Hawkeye with both hands to keep from falling over.
“You know for a guy who claims to have two left feet you really held your own out there, Father,” Hawkeye says, and then leans in to repeat it right into Mulcahy’s ear, one hand still settled on his waist and giving him a little squeeze as he adds, “You can’t tell me you didn’t take those feet out for a twirl or two before that savior of yours put a ring on your finger. Come on, you must have some good stories, huh? Huh?”
Mulcahy pulls back to look at him, cheeks glowing as he beams up into his face. “Oh, Hawkeye. Haven’t you learned by now that a priest must never kiss or tell?”
Hawkeye rocks back on his heels as his laughter overflows his body, leaving him and Mulcahy mutually clinging, mutually swaying, a different kind of dance but one that Hawkeye knows so well, loves so well, and it’s the purest kind of pleasure he thinks he’s ever known, to hold and to be held and to laugh together.
There’s a new song playing now and new couples busy a-coupling, Klinger stealing Kellye away from Potter, his dress twirling coquettishly around his thighs as she spins him onto the dance floor. Hawkeye looks for BJ, again, always, finds him busily badgering Winchester over by the pinball machines, good, good for him, he makes Hawkeye proud.
“Oh,” Mulcahy murmurs at his side, “Oh, dear.”
“What is it, Father?” he asks, ducking his head.
“Oh, it’s nothing, Hawkeye, it’s just that I…I can’t seem to remember where I left my hat.”
“Oh, here, let me help you,” Hawkeye says, taking the priest’s hat off of his head and presenting it to him with a bow. “Behold.”
“My goodness, you are on top of things, aren’t you?” Mulcahy says wonderingly, taking the hat from him and turning it over in his hands before looking up at him with the cheekiest look Hawkeye has ever seen on his face. “It’s nice to know that not all of the nurses’ gossip in that regard is pure exaggeration.”
Mulcahy has melted away into the undulating crowd before Hawkeye can scrape his jaw up off the floor. Unable to decide who needs to hear this story first he hooks his arm through Margaret’s and hauls her over to BJ and Charles. You’d think someone lit a match under the still the way the club seems to explode with their laughter and Hawkeye thinks that he’s probably going to hate himself in the morning because right now in this moment he doesn’t think he’s ever been happier, doesn’t think he’s ever felt his heart so close to bursting with love for the people around him, and his boots are stained with blood.
X*X*X*X
“Father!” Hawkeye skips a few steps and almost slips in the mud, catching himself on Mulcahy’s shoulder. “Where are you going?”
The priest smiles up at him, cheeks glowing in the dark, eyes hazy and warm. “Back to my tent. Tomorrow is Sunday after all, and I’m afraid I may have overindulged just a bit.”
“Over, under, there’s no such thing,” Hawkeye waves his hand loftily, then bows gallantly and offers Mulcahy his arm. “But please, my dear, you must allow me to escort you home, no one as pretty as you are should have to walk alone.”
Mulcahy chuckles and takes Hawkeye’s arm, leaning into his side as they walk. The night is breezy but warm, clouds scudding across the sky to obscure the moon and stars. It feels like a scene from a play, from a musical, it feels almost unbearably romantic and more than a little tragic and so Hawkeye puts on his poshest voice to insist that Mulcahy must not be allowed to catch a chill, must allow him this one small liberty, as he puts his arm around his shoulders and holds him close, rubbing his arm with his open palm as he narrates their midnight stroll, pointing out sights of great interest, thrilling to the way Mulcahy plays along, the way he allows him this bit of escapism, filling in Trapper’s role, BJ’s role, with grace and aplomb.
“Do come in for a nightcap,” Mulcahy says when Hawkeye lingers outside his tent. Mulcahy has his hand resting on the door, covering the sign of the cross next to his name.
Unlike the rest of them, the good Father rarely drinks to drown his sorrows and so he is not a maudlin drunk nor a morbid one and in the soft glow of the lamp on his desk Hawkeye is prepared to say that the man looks like an angel come to earth on some kindly mission and then Hawkeye is laughing to himself picturing him instead of Cary Grant in ‘The Bishop’s Wife,’ playing the role of the irrepressibly charming angel bumbling around turning the heads of all he meets, humming under his breath as he potters around the tent, fixing the only kind of nightcap known to such a saintly one as he – chamomile tea. Hawkeye tells himself that whether or not he personally believes in hell he's still not allowed to fall in love with a priest, and takes his cup of tea without also taking Father Mulcahy’s hand, blows across the surface and as long as his lips are already pursed takes up whistling the tune the Father was humming and he’s in heaven, I’m in heaven…
“I can still hear the music,” Mulcahy sighs happily, sipping his tea. “Can I…confide in you, Hawkeye?”
“Anytime, anyplace, anyway, the more confident the better.” He watches as Mulcahy blinks at him for a moment as though trying to parse his nonsense and then just shakes his head, and Hawkeye’s breath catches in his chest.
“I only wanted to say that I had the most wonderful evening, and I…oh, dear. I found myself thinking how grateful I am that I am here, with all of you. And I don’t usually…I haven’t been….”
“You’re not used to giving thanks for the war?” Hawkeye says, and steps over to the desk to put his mug of tea down. “Father, either you’ve been reading my mind or I was talking out loud without realizing it. I had the very same thought earlier.”
“Really?” Mulcahy gazes up at him like Hawkeye has just said the most amazing thing he’s ever heard. It’s a lot, to be all alone on the receiving end of his full attention, his blue-gray eyes so full of warmth and kindness and mirth even now, even red and blurry and drooping as he tilts his head to get a better look, to look right through Hawkeye and somehow, miraculously, not find him lacking, not yet, at least.
“Heaven,” Hawkeye sings under his breath. There’s a broom standing in one corner of the tent and Hawkeye picks it up, cavorting with it around the room the way he’d seen Fred Astaire do with a hat rack in ‘Royal Wedding,’ only he’s drawn up short when he turns to find Father Mulcahy planted right in the middle of the floor and reaching for him – no, not for him, for the broom, taking it away, replacing himself in Hawkeye’s arms, giving him a sideways kind of lecture that amounts to, ‘You’ve got a flesh-and-blood partner right here, no need to play make-believe.’
“Can you still hear the music?”
“No. You’ll have to sing for us, Hawkeye.”
“I'm in heaven, and the cares that hung around me through the week seem to vanish like a gambler's lucky streak, when we're out together dancing cheek to cheek.”
Mulcahy is the one to press his cheek to Hawkeye’s, sighing against his skin… Dance with me, I want my arm about you, the charm about you will carry me through… Swaying to the beat that only exists in their heads and their hips, surprisingly light on his feet, breath catching in a trembling laugh when Hawkeye nuzzles in against him, a breathless giggle to follow the slow drag of lips over skin, the hollow where neck meets shoulder that was sculpted for a kiss, crafted for Hawkeye’s kiss, he knows it, God knows it, and even the good Father knows it, tipping his head to the side as Hawkeye hums against his throat, quivering in his arms.
Heaven…
Hawkeye kisses him and kisses him again, opens his mouth against his neck, breathing there, salt and soap and starch and the tight band around his middle is, in fact, Father Mulcahey’s left arm, holding him by the waist, pressed up tight against him, still moving, still swaying, still dancing, he remembers these steps, left his left feet right behind and Hawkeye can feel him, his lithe little body, his trembling thighs, his strong arms, the heat between his legs, the stuttering primal press of flesh that does not answer to a higher power and Mulcahy is laughing, is giggling, is sighing and gasping and trembling in Hawkeye’s arms, taking up the tune… The charm about you will carry me through to…Heaven… His eyes are closed, his breath is hot, his body wants to take what Hawkeye wants to give but what about his heart, Hawkeye wonders, panics – No, not his soul, no, no, no, there are lines that are made for crossing and then there is this, there’s this.
“Father.” Hawkeye hasn’t had a drink in a year and a half, going by his voice. Mulcahy doesn’t answer. He’s heavy against Hawkeye, heavy in his arms, he’s drunk, he’s drunk, he’s so drunk. He goes down easily into his bed. He says thank you when Hawkeye takes off his boots. Hawkeye looks, he looks as he tells himself that if he looks he’s going to hell. He looks and tells himself immediately to forget what he saw. He looks and curls his fingers into his palms to keep from touching, god, he wants, he wants, he wants.
He covers Father Mulcahy with a blanket and back in the Swamp BJ is there with a smirk and a martini and a, “Strike out?” with his voice full of phony sympathy and god, god, Hawkeye wants and wants and wants. He turns out the light and makes BJ listen to him as he brings himself off and doesn’t pretend that he thinks BJ’s asleep because BJ doesn’t pretend to be asleep and because up until he doesn’t do it there’s always the chance that he might do it, that BJ might get up and take the three, four steps across the tent but like every night before this, he doesn’t do it and Hawkeye lies still in the oppressive darkness afterwards without bothering to clean himself up.
The party is still going strong when Hawkeye wakes up, and Father Mulcahy is not the only one who doesn’t make it to church that morning.