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katiemariie
Jul. 9th, 2005 10:08 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
pierceintyre.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
mash_slashTitle: Understanding
Author: Casey Marshall
Rating: PG-13, for language and teh drama
Summary: Hawkeye and Trapper have gone on leave, and their Swampmates (and the rest of the 4077th) must try and get along without them.
Pairings: Frank/Spearchucker (So the mushed-up name for this would be Fucker?)
Challenge: Frank/Spearchucker, any rating, in a “dramedy” vein like the show.
Author’s Note: I wouldn’t necessarily call this AU, but it draws from a sort of mix between the movie (namely that Spearchucker was brought in to win a football game), the show (since Frank and Spearchucker had to be at the 4077th at the same time), and even the real world (because black surgeons didn’t operate in the Korean War).
Another title for this could be The Plotless Wonder.
This was written for the fic exchange for the luckyvictim winner, katiemariie!
It wasn’t the first time he’d entered their tent only to find McIntyre with his pants half off.
He casts a disgusted glance at the depraved game of poker they’ve got going - careful to keep his eyes on McIntyre’s face - before uttering a half-hearted, “Degenerates.”
Hawkeye and Trapper guffaw at the comment, but Spearchucker only looks up from his cards and calmly interjects, “We could deal you in if you wanted, Frank.” He nods towards the chief surgeon, who is still wearing the majority of his clothing, and adds, “Just watch out for Hawkeye. He’s on a winning streak tonight.”
Hawkeye is smiling gleefully as he accepts Trapper’s pants. “I’m just lucky, I guess,” he says coyly. He winks at Trapper, who makes a face.
Frank sneers. Jones sounded sincere enough, but Frank is convinced he didn’t mean it. It’s probably just another joke he’s been left out of. “No civilized officer would be caught dead in this kind of perversity,” he spits out.
“Come on, Frank,” Hawkeye says, not quite able to suppress a grin. “Don’t be jealous just because Trapper never takes his pants off whenyou ask him to.”
“We’ll just see what General Hammond has to say about this,” he says. He’s already added this incident to the mental list he’s keeping for his next letter to the general. Frank flings himself on his cot and picks up his Bible, letting it fall open to a random page. He studies the words, but doesn’t read them; he just needs something to make him forget about his three tent mates for a while. After a few minutes of their inane laughter, he gives up, turns off his light, and lays down to sleep.
Trapper doesn’t even look up from his cards, but he murmurs, “Good night, Frank.”
Frank hmphed in McIntyre’s direction. “Watch your mouth.” What did he know anyway? He wasn’t even wearing any pants.
*
It’s been an hour, and Frank is still awake. Not because of their debauched game and incessant laughter – he’s used to that by now – but because he sometimes feels restless in Korea, in this tent. He feels like everything around here is a joke he doesn’t get.
The minutes drag by, and they must have thought he was asleep, because he hears Pierce laughing. “I told you not to bother asking Ferret Face.”
Jones makes a noncommittal noise.
“It’s not our fault Frank never wants to strip with us,” Trapper adds.
“I’m only sorry you’ll have to spend the next three days with him while we’re on leave.”
Frank lies still, and does not even open his eyes.
*
It’s late, and the night is so still and quiet that Frank thinks he can almost hear the gunfire from the front. He’s not sure if he’s awake, or if the voices shouting are all in his head; he decides that he must be dreaming, but then the door to the tent swings open to admit the biting chill of the cold Korean night.
“Major Burns, sir?” he hears, and he tries to ignore O’Reilly, but then the corporal is shaking him gently. Frank opens his eyes drearily, and the first thing he sees when they begin to focus is the red jersey over Jones’ bunk, still stained with grass and sweat from their last football game.
“What is it, Corporal?” he snaps.
“Wounded, sir.”
*
It is dim and cold in Colonel Blake’s office, and Frank still isn’t sure he’s awake. Margaret is huddled near him, though she carefully keeps her distance, and Spearchucker is stretched out in one of the chairs in front of the colonel’s desk.
“Where’re Pierce and McIntyre?” he asks in irritation as Colonel Blake comes in with Radar at his heels. “Those lazy, good for nothing goons.”
“They’re in Tokyo, sir,” Radar replies.
“Well, that’s no excuse,” Frank mutters resentfully, and Colonel Blake fixes him with an exasperated look before he begins.
“We’ve gotten a call to expect wounded within the hour,” the colonel says grimly. The lines around his eyes are more pronounced than usual. “There’s been heavy casualties, and obviously we’re short a few surgeons, so I need everyone we can get in OR. Ready for your first meatball surgery, Jones?”
Spearchucker arches a brow in surprise, but all he says is, “Yes, sir.”
“Colonel!” Frank straightens up abruptly. “You can’t let him operate, he’s – ”
“I’m what, Frank?” Spearchucker asks quietly with a challenging look that makes Frank swallow the words before he can get them out.
“Jones is a surgeon, Frank,” Colonel Blake interrupts. “And we need all the surgeons we can get right about now.”
“But it’s against regulations!” Margaret nods.
“Damn it, Major, there’s only one regulation I care about: this is a hospital, and hospitals save lives. Now I suggest you all get some coffee in the mess tent and then get ready to scrub up, because we’re going to be in for the long haul.”
Colonel Blake leaves in a huff of annoyance before anyone can say anything else. Henry is rarely serious, but he is grim as he leaves the office, and not even Frank questions him again. Frank starts to sneer and make a comment to Margaret, but Jones’ eyes meet his as the captain gets up to leave. The look the captain gives him is tired, dark, and once again Frank’s comment dies in his throat.
*
It has been nineteen hours, and the wounded have been coming in a morbid tide. Frank closes his eyes as he waits for the next patient to be brought in to his table, and the nurse next to him gingerly dabs the sweat from his brow. He mutters a quiet thank you, but the nurse he is looking at is Margaret, who hovers intently at Jones’ side.
Spearchucker has been working on the same patient for the last three hours.
Frank flexes his fingers, and even manages to bark out a comment about Klinger’s dress when the corporal comes in to inform him that there are no more casualties. He wanders over to the next table.
“Need help with this one?” he asks Spearchucker. He didn’t mean for it to sound so disparaging.
“Depends,” the other doctor replies without even looking up from his work. “Do you want to be able to tell him it wasn’t a black man that stitched him up?”
Frank makes a small noise in the back of his throat, ignoring Colonel Blake’s hard eyes that seem to pin him to the wall from the other side of the room, and mutters something about taking a shower.
*
They’ve spent so long in the OR that it is night once again, and by the time Frank stumbles out into the compound, he feels as though he’s been operating for hours while time stood still outside.
He’s glad Pierce and McIntyre aren’t here. Even though that means more work for him, he’s sure they would have ganged up on him by now, if not in Colonel Blake’s office, then for the comment in OR. It’s not like he really meant it that way; it just... comes out. He thinks about Pierce ranting at him, or McIntyre punching him (again), but when he shudders, he tells himself it’s because of the cold.
He stops by the mess tent, but when the first bite of food tastes like ashes in his mouth, he decides that sleep is more important. He leaves the tent only to find Jones coming out from the operating room. There is a twinge of something somewhere in the back of his mind – it couldn’t be guilt. He was only trying to follow the rules. Just because he didn’t joke around like Pierce and McIntyre...
He shoves his hands deep into his pockets and wanders over to the captain, intending to say something along the lines of “How did it go in there?” But even as he tosses the words around in his head, Spearchucker takes a single look at him, flings himself around, and vomits into the bushes at the edge of the building.
The reaction doesn’t quite surprise Frank.
It is odd, though, seeing Spearchucker – the strong, handsome football player, the confident neurosurgeon, the man who always had a smile for everyone, even Frank (most of the time)– on his knees in the dirt. Frank watches for a moment with wide eyes, but when the vomiting turns into a sobbing cough, he is suddenly galvanized into action. He moves to stand beside where the other surgeon is kneeling in the dirt and pats his shoulder. It doesn’t feel as unnatural as he thought it would.
“It’s rough,” he mutters, feeling quite useless. “I know.”
“It’s fucking disgusting!” Spearchucker hisses, and for a moment it looks like he might throw up again. When he doesn’t, Frank hauls him carefully to his feet, and he repeats the words in a dazed mantra as Frank guides him across the compound.
When they reach the Swamp, Jones pauses; his eyes meet Frank’s with a hint of something that might be fear. “That kid was so full of shrapnel. I - I had no idea… how do you do it?”
Frank shrugs. “You just do,” he says.
“Christ, no wonder Hawkeye and Trapper are always drunk. I never… How do you get used to it?”
Frank shrugs again. “You don’t.”
He’s quiet for a moment. He’s sure he should say something else, but he’s not quite sure what that something is.
“Listen, Captain,” he says, in the voice that he reserves for talking to those that outrank him, and occasionally a giddy Margaret. “You… you did a good job in there. Saved a lot of lives tonight. Really.”
When Jones looks at him this time, there is no disgust in his eyes. It hadn’t exactly been an apology, but it makes Frank feel lighter somehow.
“Thanks, Major.”
He pats the other man’s shoulder again – it gets easier each time – and they enter the Swamp.
*
It’s been a week and they haven’t had any more wounded. The camp is quiet – or at least as quiet as it can be with Pierce and McIntyre back from Seoul.
Frank enters the Swamp, and for once, everyone is fully clothed.
“Hello, Frank,” Trapper says.
“I’ll bet.”
“Hey, Frank. Hawkeye’s got post-op, and we’re looking for another player,” Spearchucker says.
“You’re – ” Frank sees Jones’ eyes, sees how wide and dark and sincere they are. Sees how he’s not looking at Frank contemptuously. “None of that monkey business?” he asks suspiciously.
“Just straight cards,” Jones replies.
“Okay.”
He takes a seat, and Trapper begins dealing the cards.
Frank smiles in spite of himself. “So, what’s the game? Hearts? Crazy eights?”
Trapper stops what he is doing and arches his brow. “Frank, the only thing that’s crazy at this table is you.”
Frank giggles. He hasn’t giggled in ages, but he feels as though he is in on the joke this time. Trapper stares.
Spearchucker is smiling. “I’ll take two, Trap,” he says, sliding two of the cards from his hand across the table to be replaced.
McIntyre looks at him. “I take it back. I’m surrounded by crazies.”
“No,” Jones replies. “We just came to a little understanding.”
Author: Casey Marshall
Rating: PG-13, for language and teh drama
Summary: Hawkeye and Trapper have gone on leave, and their Swampmates (and the rest of the 4077th) must try and get along without them.
Pairings: Frank/Spearchucker (So the mushed-up name for this would be Fucker?)
Challenge: Frank/Spearchucker, any rating, in a “dramedy” vein like the show.
Author’s Note: I wouldn’t necessarily call this AU, but it draws from a sort of mix between the movie (namely that Spearchucker was brought in to win a football game), the show (since Frank and Spearchucker had to be at the 4077th at the same time), and even the real world (because black surgeons didn’t operate in the Korean War).
Another title for this could be The Plotless Wonder.
This was written for the fic exchange for the lucky
katiemariie!It wasn’t the first time he’d entered their tent only to find McIntyre with his pants half off.
He casts a disgusted glance at the depraved game of poker they’ve got going - careful to keep his eyes on McIntyre’s face - before uttering a half-hearted, “Degenerates.”
Hawkeye and Trapper guffaw at the comment, but Spearchucker only looks up from his cards and calmly interjects, “We could deal you in if you wanted, Frank.” He nods towards the chief surgeon, who is still wearing the majority of his clothing, and adds, “Just watch out for Hawkeye. He’s on a winning streak tonight.”
Hawkeye is smiling gleefully as he accepts Trapper’s pants. “I’m just lucky, I guess,” he says coyly. He winks at Trapper, who makes a face.
Frank sneers. Jones sounded sincere enough, but Frank is convinced he didn’t mean it. It’s probably just another joke he’s been left out of. “No civilized officer would be caught dead in this kind of perversity,” he spits out.
“Come on, Frank,” Hawkeye says, not quite able to suppress a grin. “Don’t be jealous just because Trapper never takes his pants off whenyou ask him to.”
“We’ll just see what General Hammond has to say about this,” he says. He’s already added this incident to the mental list he’s keeping for his next letter to the general. Frank flings himself on his cot and picks up his Bible, letting it fall open to a random page. He studies the words, but doesn’t read them; he just needs something to make him forget about his three tent mates for a while. After a few minutes of their inane laughter, he gives up, turns off his light, and lays down to sleep.
Trapper doesn’t even look up from his cards, but he murmurs, “Good night, Frank.”
Frank hmphed in McIntyre’s direction. “Watch your mouth.” What did he know anyway? He wasn’t even wearing any pants.
*
It’s been an hour, and Frank is still awake. Not because of their debauched game and incessant laughter – he’s used to that by now – but because he sometimes feels restless in Korea, in this tent. He feels like everything around here is a joke he doesn’t get.
The minutes drag by, and they must have thought he was asleep, because he hears Pierce laughing. “I told you not to bother asking Ferret Face.”
Jones makes a noncommittal noise.
“It’s not our fault Frank never wants to strip with us,” Trapper adds.
“I’m only sorry you’ll have to spend the next three days with him while we’re on leave.”
Frank lies still, and does not even open his eyes.
*
It’s late, and the night is so still and quiet that Frank thinks he can almost hear the gunfire from the front. He’s not sure if he’s awake, or if the voices shouting are all in his head; he decides that he must be dreaming, but then the door to the tent swings open to admit the biting chill of the cold Korean night.
“Major Burns, sir?” he hears, and he tries to ignore O’Reilly, but then the corporal is shaking him gently. Frank opens his eyes drearily, and the first thing he sees when they begin to focus is the red jersey over Jones’ bunk, still stained with grass and sweat from their last football game.
“What is it, Corporal?” he snaps.
“Wounded, sir.”
*
It is dim and cold in Colonel Blake’s office, and Frank still isn’t sure he’s awake. Margaret is huddled near him, though she carefully keeps her distance, and Spearchucker is stretched out in one of the chairs in front of the colonel’s desk.
“Where’re Pierce and McIntyre?” he asks in irritation as Colonel Blake comes in with Radar at his heels. “Those lazy, good for nothing goons.”
“They’re in Tokyo, sir,” Radar replies.
“Well, that’s no excuse,” Frank mutters resentfully, and Colonel Blake fixes him with an exasperated look before he begins.
“We’ve gotten a call to expect wounded within the hour,” the colonel says grimly. The lines around his eyes are more pronounced than usual. “There’s been heavy casualties, and obviously we’re short a few surgeons, so I need everyone we can get in OR. Ready for your first meatball surgery, Jones?”
Spearchucker arches a brow in surprise, but all he says is, “Yes, sir.”
“Colonel!” Frank straightens up abruptly. “You can’t let him operate, he’s – ”
“I’m what, Frank?” Spearchucker asks quietly with a challenging look that makes Frank swallow the words before he can get them out.
“Jones is a surgeon, Frank,” Colonel Blake interrupts. “And we need all the surgeons we can get right about now.”
“But it’s against regulations!” Margaret nods.
“Damn it, Major, there’s only one regulation I care about: this is a hospital, and hospitals save lives. Now I suggest you all get some coffee in the mess tent and then get ready to scrub up, because we’re going to be in for the long haul.”
Colonel Blake leaves in a huff of annoyance before anyone can say anything else. Henry is rarely serious, but he is grim as he leaves the office, and not even Frank questions him again. Frank starts to sneer and make a comment to Margaret, but Jones’ eyes meet his as the captain gets up to leave. The look the captain gives him is tired, dark, and once again Frank’s comment dies in his throat.
*
It has been nineteen hours, and the wounded have been coming in a morbid tide. Frank closes his eyes as he waits for the next patient to be brought in to his table, and the nurse next to him gingerly dabs the sweat from his brow. He mutters a quiet thank you, but the nurse he is looking at is Margaret, who hovers intently at Jones’ side.
Spearchucker has been working on the same patient for the last three hours.
Frank flexes his fingers, and even manages to bark out a comment about Klinger’s dress when the corporal comes in to inform him that there are no more casualties. He wanders over to the next table.
“Need help with this one?” he asks Spearchucker. He didn’t mean for it to sound so disparaging.
“Depends,” the other doctor replies without even looking up from his work. “Do you want to be able to tell him it wasn’t a black man that stitched him up?”
Frank makes a small noise in the back of his throat, ignoring Colonel Blake’s hard eyes that seem to pin him to the wall from the other side of the room, and mutters something about taking a shower.
*
They’ve spent so long in the OR that it is night once again, and by the time Frank stumbles out into the compound, he feels as though he’s been operating for hours while time stood still outside.
He’s glad Pierce and McIntyre aren’t here. Even though that means more work for him, he’s sure they would have ganged up on him by now, if not in Colonel Blake’s office, then for the comment in OR. It’s not like he really meant it that way; it just... comes out. He thinks about Pierce ranting at him, or McIntyre punching him (again), but when he shudders, he tells himself it’s because of the cold.
He stops by the mess tent, but when the first bite of food tastes like ashes in his mouth, he decides that sleep is more important. He leaves the tent only to find Jones coming out from the operating room. There is a twinge of something somewhere in the back of his mind – it couldn’t be guilt. He was only trying to follow the rules. Just because he didn’t joke around like Pierce and McIntyre...
He shoves his hands deep into his pockets and wanders over to the captain, intending to say something along the lines of “How did it go in there?” But even as he tosses the words around in his head, Spearchucker takes a single look at him, flings himself around, and vomits into the bushes at the edge of the building.
The reaction doesn’t quite surprise Frank.
It is odd, though, seeing Spearchucker – the strong, handsome football player, the confident neurosurgeon, the man who always had a smile for everyone, even Frank (most of the time)– on his knees in the dirt. Frank watches for a moment with wide eyes, but when the vomiting turns into a sobbing cough, he is suddenly galvanized into action. He moves to stand beside where the other surgeon is kneeling in the dirt and pats his shoulder. It doesn’t feel as unnatural as he thought it would.
“It’s rough,” he mutters, feeling quite useless. “I know.”
“It’s fucking disgusting!” Spearchucker hisses, and for a moment it looks like he might throw up again. When he doesn’t, Frank hauls him carefully to his feet, and he repeats the words in a dazed mantra as Frank guides him across the compound.
When they reach the Swamp, Jones pauses; his eyes meet Frank’s with a hint of something that might be fear. “That kid was so full of shrapnel. I - I had no idea… how do you do it?”
Frank shrugs. “You just do,” he says.
“Christ, no wonder Hawkeye and Trapper are always drunk. I never… How do you get used to it?”
Frank shrugs again. “You don’t.”
He’s quiet for a moment. He’s sure he should say something else, but he’s not quite sure what that something is.
“Listen, Captain,” he says, in the voice that he reserves for talking to those that outrank him, and occasionally a giddy Margaret. “You… you did a good job in there. Saved a lot of lives tonight. Really.”
When Jones looks at him this time, there is no disgust in his eyes. It hadn’t exactly been an apology, but it makes Frank feel lighter somehow.
“Thanks, Major.”
He pats the other man’s shoulder again – it gets easier each time – and they enter the Swamp.
*
It’s been a week and they haven’t had any more wounded. The camp is quiet – or at least as quiet as it can be with Pierce and McIntyre back from Seoul.
Frank enters the Swamp, and for once, everyone is fully clothed.
“Hello, Frank,” Trapper says.
“I’ll bet.”
“Hey, Frank. Hawkeye’s got post-op, and we’re looking for another player,” Spearchucker says.
“You’re – ” Frank sees Jones’ eyes, sees how wide and dark and sincere they are. Sees how he’s not looking at Frank contemptuously. “None of that monkey business?” he asks suspiciously.
“Just straight cards,” Jones replies.
“Okay.”
He takes a seat, and Trapper begins dealing the cards.
Frank smiles in spite of himself. “So, what’s the game? Hearts? Crazy eights?”
Trapper stops what he is doing and arches his brow. “Frank, the only thing that’s crazy at this table is you.”
Frank giggles. He hasn’t giggled in ages, but he feels as though he is in on the joke this time. Trapper stares.
Spearchucker is smiling. “I’ll take two, Trap,” he says, sliding two of the cards from his hand across the table to be replaced.
McIntyre looks at him. “I take it back. I’m surrounded by crazies.”
“No,” Jones replies. “We just came to a little understanding.”
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no subject
Date: 2005-07-10 05:21 am (UTC)Or Spank...
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Date: 2005-07-10 05:24 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-07-10 05:46 am (UTC)It wasn’t the first time he’d entered their tent only to find McIntyre with his pants half off
That's a helluva an opening line.
Hawkeye and Trapper guffaw at the comment, but Spearchucker only looks up from his cards and calmly interjects, “We could deal you in if you wanted, Frank.”
That really illustrates the difference between Spearchucker and Trap and Hawk. He's so much cooler than them.
Frank flings himself on his cot and picks up his Bible, letting it fall open to a random page. He studies the words, but doesn’t read them; he just needs something to make him forget about his three tent mates for a while.
I heart this description. Frank kinda backs himself into a stereotype here.
What did he know anyway? He wasn’t even wearing any pants.
This made me laugh aloud.
“Colonel!” Frank straightens up abruptly. “You can’t let him operate, he’s – ”
I like the blend of canon and reality. It reminds me of the episode where they allowed the Korean bartender to operate.
or McIntyre punching him (again)
Trapper should have punched more people on the show. Hawkeye gets to punch Frank, but Trap doesn't? He got to in the movie! BS, man.
Spearchucker takes a single look at him, flings himself around, and vomits into the bushes at the edge of the building.
Jonesy. Poor, poor rookie Jonesy.
“No,” Jones replies. “We just came to a little understanding.”
Best closing line ever.
no subject
Date: 2005-07-10 06:04 am (UTC)That really illustrates the difference between Spearchucker and Trap and Hawk. He's so much cooler than them.
That's the impression I got. I mean, Hawkeye and Trapper are always, like, out to get Frank. Spearchucker seems like he's just sort of caught in the middle.
This made me laugh aloud.
I'm glad. I laughed, too, but then it was awfully late when that line came out...
Trapper should have punched more people on the show. Hawkeye gets to punch Frank, but Trap doesn't? He got to in the movie! BS, man.
I couldn't agree more. Trapper punching people makes more sense to me, anyway. He's more volatile like that. Hawkeye, to me, would just run his mouth off; Trapper would kick some ass.
But yes, thank you for the kind review, and I'm really glad you enjoyed the fic!
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Date: 2005-07-10 05:47 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-07-10 06:06 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-07-10 03:45 pm (UTC)So the mushed-up name for this would be Fucker?
HAHAHAHA. I would have gone with "Frucker" myself, or..."Frankchucker". Heh. That gives all sorts of images, doesn't it? Anyway.
I love the way this characterises Spearchucker. We don't hardly see him atall in the show, so people have v. little to work with. I think though, obviously, most of it is made up, you did a wonderful job catching his personality. And I v. much like how he almost seems to have a mediator feel to him - Hawkeye is one of the spectrum, Trapper at the other, but Spearchucker in the middle. At first I wasn't going to read this - because Spearchucker/Frank would have squicked me. But this is v. good. Thank you for writing it.
<:3D~
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Date: 2005-07-10 09:50 pm (UTC)Hee, I actually thought Frucker first. And then, it being about 3-4am Friday night/Saturday morning, my worn out little brain made the one letter jump to Fucker, and I was like, "Man, that's the worst pairing name ever!" And, yeah. ^^
We don't hardly see him atall in the show, so people have v. little to work with.
Yeah. I don't even own the first season DVDs, so I was writing Spearchucker solely from the movie. And of course, in the movie, Frank is already gone (although I never saw much in common between movie!Frank and TV!Frank anyway *shrug*), so I was just sort of making up the interaction between the two characters as I went along.
Hawkeye is one of the spectrum, Trapper at the other, but Spearchucker in the middle.
That's sort of the feel I got. Hawkeye and Trapper tend to, well, actively dislike Frank. Spearchucker, as far as I could remember, may not have been wild about the guy, but he didn't seem to go out of his way to be mean to him, either. It also had to do with trying to find a personality for him while I was writing that wasn't just a carbon copy of Hawkeye and Trapper, because that's not the impression I got from him, and because, well, that'd be really boring.
At first I wasn't going to read this - because Spearchucker/Frank would have squicked me.
Yeah. My first reaction after reading my challenge email was something along the lines of "... Eep?" There's a reason the only physical interaction between the two is Frank patting Spearchucker's shoulder; I didn't think I could handle any more without going wildly OOC. ><
Thank you for writing it.
Thank you for liking it!