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Feb. 28th, 2007 07:55 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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mash_slashRough-draft first chapter of the Mulcahy/Hawkeye from my previous post. The 'intro' from before is included, and I apologize for it.
still 7+ still unrequited freaky-love, still Hawkeye POV and still poorly written.
But as it turns out, this pairing is fun to write to the extreme, even though I border on hating Hawk/Mulcahy.
I was in Korea before Dwight ever said he'd go.
In fact, I was one of the first in Korea, not at all out of choice.
I was one of the last to leave, also not at all out of choice.
Going to war, or police action, according to Truman, I'd expected a lot of things: bad food, no food, canned food, powdered food, fetishism, voyeurism, sado-masochism, diarreah, pyorreah, gonorrhea; Korea.
I had expected war to be hell because even by June, 1950 it was a cliche. I'd seen the war comics, though I'd never read them, as from a young age I was thoroughly against the pain of others, even in the illustrations of a comic book. I'd seen the casualty figures of both world wars and all significant fights previous to them--although I admit none of the numbers stayed with me, I knew in theory what to expect as a doctor in an army unit during wartime. Of course, expectations, good or bad, pale in the face of the real thing. War was worse than hell, the wounded were more scared than men on the front of the war comics, the latrines were filthier and so were the people.
Expectations are better than no-expectations, though, because you have a comparison. So while I was disappointed, my sanity was almost still in tact; with a few pieces falling out of the puzzle, maybe. I was what I never was as a boyscout (possibly because I never was a boyscout). I was prepared.
Or so I thought.
Maybe, my lack of boyscouting in the past led to me being unprepared in the area I was most expierienced: Love. Making love was my more expert form of this, but I had been in love before, so it would have been a rather natural thing to expect when stuck in a potentially life-and-death situation with a group of people you'd have to trust whether you wanted to or not. This would probably have seemed a bit like a storybook-- the fairy tale type where no one has a choice but to live happily ever after-- except, it's hard for any story to be happily ever after when you're a man who's in love with a man. Or, more accurately, a man who's in love with a clergyman.
'My God, Hawkeye!' screams the crowd, waving their pitchforks and torches, 'A priest!?'.
In all fairness, priests were on my short list of people not to molest. The top of the list, in fact: Priests, monks, most of the male half of the population, anyone that could pass for a species other than homosapien, and Frank. But, also in all fairness, I'd never met a priest I would have cared to molest before I met Mulcahy.
For that matter, I shouldn't have cared to molest Mulcahy. He was clean, with straight hair, ironed shirt, and presumably--How I would have liked to do more than presume!--pressed shorts. He was a man who lived in the breastpocket of God, which I suppose is fair enough residence; cheap rent and a damn good neighbor. He was quiet, soft-spoken, sweet, dear, loving, caring; he was an all around good person-- he was everything I was against.
We were complete opposites, really: me as a gin-guzzling, ladies' man with considerably fewer morals than would be considered fit by the priesthood, and Mulcahy had far too many morals to be considered fit by Perverts' Anonymous.
But just the same, I was completely ready to corrupt our priest.
'So', you say now suitably aroused, waggling your eyebrows , 'Did you corrupt the priest?'
And the answer to that, Dear readers, is no. As a man with a previously stated few morals, I had enough not to have sex with either married-to-women men or married-to-God men. While I was raised by a family bordering on sacrilegious, I knew to leave well enough alone if someone had previous committments; girlfriends, boyfriends, and fiancees not withstanding.
If I were to make an excuse for it-- loving Mulcahy, that is, I do believe it was the orphans who did me in. The orphanage had been shelled sometime late in '50, sending Mulcahy and myself to the 'frontish' part of the front to load them into the back of a truck. Mulcahy had spoken of them often in the past, but I'd never seen them hanging from his every limb, nearly weighing the dear man down, before. If you ever want to expierience your heart being heated to melting point, find a priest and load him with orphans. Preferrably without the added noise of bombs.
Father and I threw them (figuratively, thank you very much) into the truck and hauled ourselves out of there as quickly as we could, laughing and joking out of sheer relief of not becoming Korean confetti. We then, both happily and reluctantly, returned to the Hell, sweet, Hell of the forty-seventy-seventh. Safety was, to him, the wide, open arms of God and to me the drink-offering hand of Trapper McIntyre. Both of which were ready and willing as the orphans clambered from the back of our pickup.
Shortly thereafter, we'd had a steady stream of casualties-- some of the little tykes we'd hauled to camp included-- because the fighting had shifted. Though none of these boys had been wounded enough for us to call for last rites, there were enough of them to keep me from seeing the padre any other way.
For this story to be told at all, I have to make up an actual beginning for it, so I will say that the beginning of the beginning begins when I had to inspect Mulcahy. This was, naturally, not the sort of inspection Radar did on a regular basis by pressing his eye against the hole in the shower tent, but rather a very nice, calm, intelligent sort of an inspection that, if I'd touched Mulcahy any more than I had, would have lead to me ravaging the poor man.
After a forty-eight hour day of surgery, I was headed off to the Mess Tent to commit hari-kari with the green beans, when Father Mulcahy approached me.He was pink-faced and I was about to offer to buy him a cup of coffee to warm him up when I noticed the redness to his face wasn't accompanied to the cold. He bent over, his hands on his knees, and began breathing erratically, his lungs rattling and knees knocking.
"Father!" I exclaimed, rushing to him.
"Hawkeye, " He gasped, not lifting his head much but tipping his eyes to look at me, "may we sit for a minute?...I'm...having trouble breathing." he very nearly tumbled into a sit, slowed only by me grabbing his hand.
I released his hand a little tentatively, then dropped, a little more graciously than he did, to a sit myself.
"Are you all right, Father? Can I get you a drink?"
"No...Thank you...That won't be neccessary, just let me..." his knees were up in the air and he buried his head between them, hands tangled into his hair. He was shuddering, "catch my second wind, as it were." he wheezed finally, then, as his air came about him, he straightened himelf, peering at me behind crooked glasses.
I smiled, reached forward and set his glasses right, "What's wrong, Red?"
"I was wondering if I could speak with you." He said, slower and softer than usual. He swallowed thickly, wincing in pain, and I had the sudden urge to hug him. This, of course, is what I can readily admit to thinking about a sick priest without having a lynch mob come after me. What I was really thinking was so far past the point of a hug that your toenails would curl.
"What do you think we're doing now?" I asked, pressing the back of my hand to his forehead to check for fever. His head was,indeed, very hot, "Of course you can talk to me, Father, but let's get you to your tent first, all right? Can you stand? You're burning up. I'll get you that drink. You're--" all right, so I was fretting.
"Hawkeye." He interrupted hoarsely, "Of course you're right." He stood, a little awkwardly, though this was entirely my fault. I was now almost sharing boots with him, clinging to his arm in a white-knuckled grasp. So, fretting might have been an understatement. A little bit. "But this," he continued, "is a professional question. If I'm bothering you..."
"Believe me, Father," I rushed, "you are never a bother." I dragged him to his tent a little too roughly to be polite, especially considering his gasping-for-breath condition, "Your throat's swollen, Father--don't mind me groping, it's for medical reasons." I said.
I stood toe-to-toe with him, one hand still grabbing at his wrist, and the other to his throat, tipping his head up to look me in the eye. I kneaded the swollen glands gently as he tried to speak; a difficult task already, made harder by my touch.
"Hawkeye!" He croaked, now a little what I'd call 'miffed', as Father was hardly ever angry. He pushed my right hand down from his throat but did not remove himself from where I was grabbing him fiercely with the other, "Please, let me speak."
"Oh, gladly. If you can, with that voice." Yes. Father was 'miffed'. I was 'mad'. And when I get 'mad' my sarcasm-meter is at its peak.
Father dropped his shoulders a bit in annoyance, probably praying to God to restrain himself from hitting me. I, remembering our priest was also a boxer, prayed for the same thing and dutifully stepped backwards and out of reach.
"I'm sorry." I lamented, meaning it if only because he was blocking the only escape route.
"Quite all right. I wanted your opinion on my...condition. I'd hate to stop confessions, or--Heaven Forbid!-- last rites, but I certainly do not want to get others ill..."
I returned to my place in front of him, "Take off your glasses, Father." He obliged and I pushed up the lid of his eye with my thumb, peering at him.
And I must now admit that I'd done this only for show; by this time I'd calmed myself enough to diagnose him(albeit hesitantly, as his symptoms were very generic). I'd also calmed myself to realize that I could easily manipulate Henry into giving the priest a vacation--with me to accompany him, of course-- to Tokyo. This little disease could easily have been the break I needed to get my foot into the door of a better friendship with Mulcahy.
"Open your mouth." I said, and he did. Lacking a tongue depressor, I pressed his down with my fingers and even in the dim light I knew I was right. My heart beating fast, I was unable to suppress my smile at the thought of Tokyo with my priest as I asked the question I already knew the answer to: "You ever have your tonsils out, Father?"
still 7+ still unrequited freaky-love, still Hawkeye POV and still poorly written.
But as it turns out, this pairing is fun to write to the extreme, even though I border on hating Hawk/Mulcahy.
I was in Korea before Dwight ever said he'd go.
In fact, I was one of the first in Korea, not at all out of choice.
I was one of the last to leave, also not at all out of choice.
Going to war, or police action, according to Truman, I'd expected a lot of things: bad food, no food, canned food, powdered food, fetishism, voyeurism, sado-masochism, diarreah, pyorreah, gonorrhea; Korea.
I had expected war to be hell because even by June, 1950 it was a cliche. I'd seen the war comics, though I'd never read them, as from a young age I was thoroughly against the pain of others, even in the illustrations of a comic book. I'd seen the casualty figures of both world wars and all significant fights previous to them--although I admit none of the numbers stayed with me, I knew in theory what to expect as a doctor in an army unit during wartime. Of course, expectations, good or bad, pale in the face of the real thing. War was worse than hell, the wounded were more scared than men on the front of the war comics, the latrines were filthier and so were the people.
Expectations are better than no-expectations, though, because you have a comparison. So while I was disappointed, my sanity was almost still in tact; with a few pieces falling out of the puzzle, maybe. I was what I never was as a boyscout (possibly because I never was a boyscout). I was prepared.
Or so I thought.
Maybe, my lack of boyscouting in the past led to me being unprepared in the area I was most expierienced: Love. Making love was my more expert form of this, but I had been in love before, so it would have been a rather natural thing to expect when stuck in a potentially life-and-death situation with a group of people you'd have to trust whether you wanted to or not. This would probably have seemed a bit like a storybook-- the fairy tale type where no one has a choice but to live happily ever after-- except, it's hard for any story to be happily ever after when you're a man who's in love with a man. Or, more accurately, a man who's in love with a clergyman.
'My God, Hawkeye!' screams the crowd, waving their pitchforks and torches, 'A priest!?'.
In all fairness, priests were on my short list of people not to molest. The top of the list, in fact: Priests, monks, most of the male half of the population, anyone that could pass for a species other than homosapien, and Frank. But, also in all fairness, I'd never met a priest I would have cared to molest before I met Mulcahy.
For that matter, I shouldn't have cared to molest Mulcahy. He was clean, with straight hair, ironed shirt, and presumably--How I would have liked to do more than presume!--pressed shorts. He was a man who lived in the breastpocket of God, which I suppose is fair enough residence; cheap rent and a damn good neighbor. He was quiet, soft-spoken, sweet, dear, loving, caring; he was an all around good person-- he was everything I was against.
We were complete opposites, really: me as a gin-guzzling, ladies' man with considerably fewer morals than would be considered fit by the priesthood, and Mulcahy had far too many morals to be considered fit by Perverts' Anonymous.
But just the same, I was completely ready to corrupt our priest.
'So', you say now suitably aroused, waggling your eyebrows , 'Did you corrupt the priest?'
And the answer to that, Dear readers, is no. As a man with a previously stated few morals, I had enough not to have sex with either married-to-women men or married-to-God men. While I was raised by a family bordering on sacrilegious, I knew to leave well enough alone if someone had previous committments; girlfriends, boyfriends, and fiancees not withstanding.
If I were to make an excuse for it-- loving Mulcahy, that is, I do believe it was the orphans who did me in. The orphanage had been shelled sometime late in '50, sending Mulcahy and myself to the 'frontish' part of the front to load them into the back of a truck. Mulcahy had spoken of them often in the past, but I'd never seen them hanging from his every limb, nearly weighing the dear man down, before. If you ever want to expierience your heart being heated to melting point, find a priest and load him with orphans. Preferrably without the added noise of bombs.
Father and I threw them (figuratively, thank you very much) into the truck and hauled ourselves out of there as quickly as we could, laughing and joking out of sheer relief of not becoming Korean confetti. We then, both happily and reluctantly, returned to the Hell, sweet, Hell of the forty-seventy-seventh. Safety was, to him, the wide, open arms of God and to me the drink-offering hand of Trapper McIntyre. Both of which were ready and willing as the orphans clambered from the back of our pickup.
Shortly thereafter, we'd had a steady stream of casualties-- some of the little tykes we'd hauled to camp included-- because the fighting had shifted. Though none of these boys had been wounded enough for us to call for last rites, there were enough of them to keep me from seeing the padre any other way.
For this story to be told at all, I have to make up an actual beginning for it, so I will say that the beginning of the beginning begins when I had to inspect Mulcahy. This was, naturally, not the sort of inspection Radar did on a regular basis by pressing his eye against the hole in the shower tent, but rather a very nice, calm, intelligent sort of an inspection that, if I'd touched Mulcahy any more than I had, would have lead to me ravaging the poor man.
After a forty-eight hour day of surgery, I was headed off to the Mess Tent to commit hari-kari with the green beans, when Father Mulcahy approached me.He was pink-faced and I was about to offer to buy him a cup of coffee to warm him up when I noticed the redness to his face wasn't accompanied to the cold. He bent over, his hands on his knees, and began breathing erratically, his lungs rattling and knees knocking.
"Father!" I exclaimed, rushing to him.
"Hawkeye, " He gasped, not lifting his head much but tipping his eyes to look at me, "may we sit for a minute?...I'm...having trouble breathing." he very nearly tumbled into a sit, slowed only by me grabbing his hand.
I released his hand a little tentatively, then dropped, a little more graciously than he did, to a sit myself.
"Are you all right, Father? Can I get you a drink?"
"No...Thank you...That won't be neccessary, just let me..." his knees were up in the air and he buried his head between them, hands tangled into his hair. He was shuddering, "catch my second wind, as it were." he wheezed finally, then, as his air came about him, he straightened himelf, peering at me behind crooked glasses.
I smiled, reached forward and set his glasses right, "What's wrong, Red?"
"I was wondering if I could speak with you." He said, slower and softer than usual. He swallowed thickly, wincing in pain, and I had the sudden urge to hug him. This, of course, is what I can readily admit to thinking about a sick priest without having a lynch mob come after me. What I was really thinking was so far past the point of a hug that your toenails would curl.
"What do you think we're doing now?" I asked, pressing the back of my hand to his forehead to check for fever. His head was,indeed, very hot, "Of course you can talk to me, Father, but let's get you to your tent first, all right? Can you stand? You're burning up. I'll get you that drink. You're--" all right, so I was fretting.
"Hawkeye." He interrupted hoarsely, "Of course you're right." He stood, a little awkwardly, though this was entirely my fault. I was now almost sharing boots with him, clinging to his arm in a white-knuckled grasp. So, fretting might have been an understatement. A little bit. "But this," he continued, "is a professional question. If I'm bothering you..."
"Believe me, Father," I rushed, "you are never a bother." I dragged him to his tent a little too roughly to be polite, especially considering his gasping-for-breath condition, "Your throat's swollen, Father--don't mind me groping, it's for medical reasons." I said.
I stood toe-to-toe with him, one hand still grabbing at his wrist, and the other to his throat, tipping his head up to look me in the eye. I kneaded the swollen glands gently as he tried to speak; a difficult task already, made harder by my touch.
"Hawkeye!" He croaked, now a little what I'd call 'miffed', as Father was hardly ever angry. He pushed my right hand down from his throat but did not remove himself from where I was grabbing him fiercely with the other, "Please, let me speak."
"Oh, gladly. If you can, with that voice." Yes. Father was 'miffed'. I was 'mad'. And when I get 'mad' my sarcasm-meter is at its peak.
Father dropped his shoulders a bit in annoyance, probably praying to God to restrain himself from hitting me. I, remembering our priest was also a boxer, prayed for the same thing and dutifully stepped backwards and out of reach.
"I'm sorry." I lamented, meaning it if only because he was blocking the only escape route.
"Quite all right. I wanted your opinion on my...condition. I'd hate to stop confessions, or--Heaven Forbid!-- last rites, but I certainly do not want to get others ill..."
I returned to my place in front of him, "Take off your glasses, Father." He obliged and I pushed up the lid of his eye with my thumb, peering at him.
And I must now admit that I'd done this only for show; by this time I'd calmed myself enough to diagnose him(albeit hesitantly, as his symptoms were very generic). I'd also calmed myself to realize that I could easily manipulate Henry into giving the priest a vacation--with me to accompany him, of course-- to Tokyo. This little disease could easily have been the break I needed to get my foot into the door of a better friendship with Mulcahy.
"Open your mouth." I said, and he did. Lacking a tongue depressor, I pressed his down with my fingers and even in the dim light I knew I was right. My heart beating fast, I was unable to suppress my smile at the thought of Tokyo with my priest as I asked the question I already knew the answer to: "You ever have your tonsils out, Father?"
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Same anonymous from before.
Date: 2007-03-01 04:35 am (UTC)I love how even in the throes of genuine concern Hawkeye's scheming.
Re: Same anonymous from before.
Date: 2007-03-01 05:13 am (UTC)Thanks very much for the kind comments. They really mean a lot to me. *hugs*
awesome
Date: 2007-03-02 03:31 am (UTC)Re: awesome
Date: 2007-03-02 03:47 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-03-03 07:51 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-03-05 04:21 am (UTC)How's your fic going, btw? I can't wait to read more of it!
no subject
Date: 2007-03-16 07:47 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-03-18 09:18 pm (UTC)Thanks for the comment and for bringing it back to mind!
no subject
Date: 2007-03-19 12:14 am (UTC)