Fic: The Ruins of Their Hiding Places.
Nov. 1st, 2005 09:36 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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mash_slashI thought I'd post my sole slashy ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
hashbash entry (unplaced) here in the hope that it might be of some vague interest and also that it might get a little feedback, which ain't really happening on t'other site. It was written for the 'Caught' challenge. Here it be.
Title: The Ruins of Their Hiding Places.
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 1,270
Pairing: Hawkeye/Mulcahy
Disclaimer: Characters and contexts depicted do not belong to me. I make no profit from this story.
He scuttles across the compound, hunched over like a man caught out in the rain with a broken umbrella. He looks to be heading for the latrine till he pirouettes in a pool of shade and darts at the eleventh hour into the sanctuary of the padre's tent. The door is ajar. He shoulders his way in and scans the twilight through a two-inch gap, eyes darting to and fro, nose among the splinters. Finding no signs of life, he shoves himself upright, jams his hands in his pockets and trips away to the far side of the tent. He's checking the canvas for spy-holes.
Mulcahy leans against the stovepipe, arms clamped about his ribs. His glasses swing from his fidgeting fingers; his heel works an arc into the dust. Otherwise, he's still and quiet. The priest never joins this search.
Hawkeye runs the toe of his boot along the gaping seam between tent-wall and floor. Inciting no agonised squeals, he turns away satisfied and shoots a quick glance around the half-lit room, lingering in the darkest corners. He hooks his little finger into the lid of an unlocked locker and runs a restless hand through the khaki and the black. He pauses by the rickety cot, lifts a pillow and pats the lumps from the sheet.
Mulcahy follows him with a blurred and myopic gaze. Seeing little but a red-robed fuzz, he turns his eyes back into his skull and roots around for the missing word again. He's having a episode of...oh, what's the term now? Ah yes. Aphasia. Deep inside, he chuckles to himself.
Hawkeye’s looking inside the pillowcase now. Mulcahy throws him a tight-lipped smile, for show, and steps towards the cot before Hawkeye tears the thing open and sifts the feathers.
‘Can’t be too careful,’ says Hawk, with a grin. Mulcahy nods, averts his eyes and drapes his glasses over the bed-frame. Hawkeye throws a brief glance at the hole in the ceiling where the stovepipe breaks through, then takes Mulcahy by the shoulders.
He sinks on top of him and lets his weary head drift down till their brows touch. Mulcahy watches his eyelids close.
*
The captain's very thorough. He knows nearly all the tricks; he's something of a voyeur himself, of course, and those spy-holes don't exactly bore themselves. But he slipped up badly a week or two ago. Nurse Kitteridge. New around here. Turned out her fiancé had a four-day pass; shipped himself out from Tokyo for the weekend and found himself following directions to the supply tent. Mulcahy suspected the tip-off came from BJ. BJ wheedled himself off Hawkeye’s own list of suspects by tenderly stitching the split upper lip, while Major Winchester tossed an ice-pack into Hawkeye’s lap and laughed long and loud with his hands behind his head.
‘Kitteridge said they couldn’t afford a ring. How was I supposed to know?’
Hawkeye shies at a decorated ring finger. He kicks his conscience twice round the Swamp and waits till the dead of night when his shaking cot jars it free. He drags it along to the storeroom, via the nurses’ tent, all battered and torn and needy. And he bounces it off BJ all through the morning after.
Mulcahy watched, and listened, and ran a finger round the inside of his collar. He'd slipped unseen into the open doorway, bowing his way apologetically through the cackling crowd. Winchester's sidling out with a nod and a dryly courteous 'Father' gave him away.
'Okay, you're done.' BJ clapped his bunkmate on the shoulder and rose. Mulcahy doffed his panama as he sidestepped BJ and dropped to his knees beside Hawkeye.
Hawkeye rolled his head on the pillow and squinted at him through a tightly drawn eye. 'I'm guessing you didn't come to gloat anyway.'
Mulcahy glanced over his shoulder, walking his fingers around the brim of his hat. He turned back to Hawkeye and lowered his voice to a near-whisper. 'I heard your confession.'
'Oh yeah?'
‘You know you can always come to me about these things.’
Hawkeye balanced the ice-pack on the bridge of his nose. ‘I’m not looking for Hail Marys, Father.’
Mulcahy bowed his head, converted the gesture into a nod, and tucked his cross behind a loosely-cupped hand. After regrouping, he looked up and held Hawkeye's light-phobic stare without blinking. 'What happened to Kitteridge?'
A sigh from the bed. 'She's bruised.'
'Oh my.'
'Yeah. Go get his confession.' Hawkeye lobbed the pack across the tent and dug his knuckles deep into his eyes. 'She tried to keep me out of it, but the bastard grabbed hold of her; I had to come forward. She's got those...you know, those fingertip bruises on her upper arms. And she says if he comes to her with a ring after this, she'll make him swallow it. You cold, Father?' He lifted his head from the pillow and frowned. 'I didn't hit you with that ice-pack, did I?'
Mulcahy shook his head, raised his eyebrows and threw him a non-committal shrug. Hawkeye grunted and let his head fall back with a dull thump. He crossed his arms over his face.
'What a night.'
Mulcahy shuddered and wrapped his arms still tighter about his ribs.
*
Hawkeye's lying on his chest now, twining his fingers into the silvery hair on his temple. Mulcahy watches his face, his gaze tracing all the new lines on Hawkeye's brow, searching the shades of his half-closed eyes. He's sleepy himself. The weight that covers him is warm.
'What are you thinking?' asks Hawkeye.
Mulcahy shifts and draws a breath. ‘I heard on the grapevine you were planning a liaison with Nurse West this evening.’
‘Uh uh,' says Hawkeye, shaking his head. He gives an awkward writhe on Mulcahy's stomach. 'She carries a photo of her husband in her wallet.'
Mulcahy blinks, slowly. 'That's bothers you,' he says.
'Sure. I mean, you ought to see the size of this guy. He’s an ape.'
'Oh.'
Hawkeye smiles and laughs through his nose. ‘Not as big as your guy though. I hate to think what kind of a black eye I’m going to have tomorrow morning.’
Mulcahy's lips part, dryly. But this is, what, the seventh time? That joke was long overdue; no doubt Hawkeye thought he was ready. If Hawkeye thought at all.
‘Hey. I’m sorry.’
Mulcahy twitches a smile, works a pinioned arm free and curls his fingers round the back of Hawkeye's neck. ‘I gave you my permission, Hawkeye. The blame for this never lay with you.’
Hawkeye bends and kisses each of his eyelids in turn. They flutter open again the instant he lifts his face. ‘So you’re keeping my name out of it.’
‘My solemn word.’
‘Aha. I’m going to check under the bed one more time. Just in case.’
He swings his torso over the side of the cot. Mulcahy's fingers slide to his own bare throat. He turns his eyes to the ceiling.
'All clear,' mumbles Hawkeye from the gloom.
Mulcahy nods, closes his eyes and gropes for the fallen blanket. Hawkeye comes up from the dusty floorboards with it already in his hand. He smiles, resettles his weight and passes the blanket over the pair of them. Mulcahy probes for the fringe with his toes and kicks it over the end of the cot. Hawkeye pulls the top right over his head and tugs it down tight, wrapping the corners gently over Mulcahy's shoulders, hiding the bruises Mulcahy has borne since the night he first dreamed of their lying together like this.
Mulcahy catches the sob in his throat long before it breaks free.
***
hashbash entry (unplaced) here in the hope that it might be of some vague interest and also that it might get a little feedback, which ain't really happening on t'other site. It was written for the 'Caught' challenge. Here it be. Title: The Ruins of Their Hiding Places.
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 1,270
Pairing: Hawkeye/Mulcahy
Disclaimer: Characters and contexts depicted do not belong to me. I make no profit from this story.
He scuttles across the compound, hunched over like a man caught out in the rain with a broken umbrella. He looks to be heading for the latrine till he pirouettes in a pool of shade and darts at the eleventh hour into the sanctuary of the padre's tent. The door is ajar. He shoulders his way in and scans the twilight through a two-inch gap, eyes darting to and fro, nose among the splinters. Finding no signs of life, he shoves himself upright, jams his hands in his pockets and trips away to the far side of the tent. He's checking the canvas for spy-holes.
Mulcahy leans against the stovepipe, arms clamped about his ribs. His glasses swing from his fidgeting fingers; his heel works an arc into the dust. Otherwise, he's still and quiet. The priest never joins this search.
Hawkeye runs the toe of his boot along the gaping seam between tent-wall and floor. Inciting no agonised squeals, he turns away satisfied and shoots a quick glance around the half-lit room, lingering in the darkest corners. He hooks his little finger into the lid of an unlocked locker and runs a restless hand through the khaki and the black. He pauses by the rickety cot, lifts a pillow and pats the lumps from the sheet.
Mulcahy follows him with a blurred and myopic gaze. Seeing little but a red-robed fuzz, he turns his eyes back into his skull and roots around for the missing word again. He's having a episode of...oh, what's the term now? Ah yes. Aphasia. Deep inside, he chuckles to himself.
Hawkeye’s looking inside the pillowcase now. Mulcahy throws him a tight-lipped smile, for show, and steps towards the cot before Hawkeye tears the thing open and sifts the feathers.
‘Can’t be too careful,’ says Hawk, with a grin. Mulcahy nods, averts his eyes and drapes his glasses over the bed-frame. Hawkeye throws a brief glance at the hole in the ceiling where the stovepipe breaks through, then takes Mulcahy by the shoulders.
He sinks on top of him and lets his weary head drift down till their brows touch. Mulcahy watches his eyelids close.
*
The captain's very thorough. He knows nearly all the tricks; he's something of a voyeur himself, of course, and those spy-holes don't exactly bore themselves. But he slipped up badly a week or two ago. Nurse Kitteridge. New around here. Turned out her fiancé had a four-day pass; shipped himself out from Tokyo for the weekend and found himself following directions to the supply tent. Mulcahy suspected the tip-off came from BJ. BJ wheedled himself off Hawkeye’s own list of suspects by tenderly stitching the split upper lip, while Major Winchester tossed an ice-pack into Hawkeye’s lap and laughed long and loud with his hands behind his head.
‘Kitteridge said they couldn’t afford a ring. How was I supposed to know?’
Hawkeye shies at a decorated ring finger. He kicks his conscience twice round the Swamp and waits till the dead of night when his shaking cot jars it free. He drags it along to the storeroom, via the nurses’ tent, all battered and torn and needy. And he bounces it off BJ all through the morning after.
Mulcahy watched, and listened, and ran a finger round the inside of his collar. He'd slipped unseen into the open doorway, bowing his way apologetically through the cackling crowd. Winchester's sidling out with a nod and a dryly courteous 'Father' gave him away.
'Okay, you're done.' BJ clapped his bunkmate on the shoulder and rose. Mulcahy doffed his panama as he sidestepped BJ and dropped to his knees beside Hawkeye.
Hawkeye rolled his head on the pillow and squinted at him through a tightly drawn eye. 'I'm guessing you didn't come to gloat anyway.'
Mulcahy glanced over his shoulder, walking his fingers around the brim of his hat. He turned back to Hawkeye and lowered his voice to a near-whisper. 'I heard your confession.'
'Oh yeah?'
‘You know you can always come to me about these things.’
Hawkeye balanced the ice-pack on the bridge of his nose. ‘I’m not looking for Hail Marys, Father.’
Mulcahy bowed his head, converted the gesture into a nod, and tucked his cross behind a loosely-cupped hand. After regrouping, he looked up and held Hawkeye's light-phobic stare without blinking. 'What happened to Kitteridge?'
A sigh from the bed. 'She's bruised.'
'Oh my.'
'Yeah. Go get his confession.' Hawkeye lobbed the pack across the tent and dug his knuckles deep into his eyes. 'She tried to keep me out of it, but the bastard grabbed hold of her; I had to come forward. She's got those...you know, those fingertip bruises on her upper arms. And she says if he comes to her with a ring after this, she'll make him swallow it. You cold, Father?' He lifted his head from the pillow and frowned. 'I didn't hit you with that ice-pack, did I?'
Mulcahy shook his head, raised his eyebrows and threw him a non-committal shrug. Hawkeye grunted and let his head fall back with a dull thump. He crossed his arms over his face.
'What a night.'
Mulcahy shuddered and wrapped his arms still tighter about his ribs.
*
Hawkeye's lying on his chest now, twining his fingers into the silvery hair on his temple. Mulcahy watches his face, his gaze tracing all the new lines on Hawkeye's brow, searching the shades of his half-closed eyes. He's sleepy himself. The weight that covers him is warm.
'What are you thinking?' asks Hawkeye.
Mulcahy shifts and draws a breath. ‘I heard on the grapevine you were planning a liaison with Nurse West this evening.’
‘Uh uh,' says Hawkeye, shaking his head. He gives an awkward writhe on Mulcahy's stomach. 'She carries a photo of her husband in her wallet.'
Mulcahy blinks, slowly. 'That's bothers you,' he says.
'Sure. I mean, you ought to see the size of this guy. He’s an ape.'
'Oh.'
Hawkeye smiles and laughs through his nose. ‘Not as big as your guy though. I hate to think what kind of a black eye I’m going to have tomorrow morning.’
Mulcahy's lips part, dryly. But this is, what, the seventh time? That joke was long overdue; no doubt Hawkeye thought he was ready. If Hawkeye thought at all.
‘Hey. I’m sorry.’
Mulcahy twitches a smile, works a pinioned arm free and curls his fingers round the back of Hawkeye's neck. ‘I gave you my permission, Hawkeye. The blame for this never lay with you.’
Hawkeye bends and kisses each of his eyelids in turn. They flutter open again the instant he lifts his face. ‘So you’re keeping my name out of it.’
‘My solemn word.’
‘Aha. I’m going to check under the bed one more time. Just in case.’
He swings his torso over the side of the cot. Mulcahy's fingers slide to his own bare throat. He turns his eyes to the ceiling.
'All clear,' mumbles Hawkeye from the gloom.
Mulcahy nods, closes his eyes and gropes for the fallen blanket. Hawkeye comes up from the dusty floorboards with it already in his hand. He smiles, resettles his weight and passes the blanket over the pair of them. Mulcahy probes for the fringe with his toes and kicks it over the end of the cot. Hawkeye pulls the top right over his head and tugs it down tight, wrapping the corners gently over Mulcahy's shoulders, hiding the bruises Mulcahy has borne since the night he first dreamed of their lying together like this.
Mulcahy catches the sob in his throat long before it breaks free.
***
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no subject
Date: 2005-11-01 10:39 pm (UTC)Anywhoops, I like, insofar as I find it possible to like Mulcahy pairings. He just doesn't seem the type to break his chastity vow. But if he ever did, I'm willing to bet it'd be with Hawkeye.
Did I mention I'm sleep-fuddled?
I should stop this review now while it's still clinging to the vestiges of sense. Ah well. Like the style, amused me in places, well written, almost all in character *holds up a 10 card*
no subject
Date: 2005-11-01 10:54 pm (UTC)Thanks again.
no subject
Date: 2005-11-02 08:40 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-11-02 08:40 pm (UTC)Wow.
Date: 2007-02-11 12:50 am (UTC)Re: Wow.
Date: 2007-02-11 09:26 am (UTC)(How did you even find this fic, by the way? I had to get to it via the link in the comment alert that came into my inbox - I couldn't find it in the community memories.)
Re: Wow.
Date: 2007-04-27 01:19 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-07-27 01:28 pm (UTC)I love when I'm forced to fetch a dictionary midsentence. Aphasia. :) Nice.
You ever read Haven Kimmel? She's written mostly autobiographical short stories, but her one novel is exquisite. But your writing reminds me of hers. Lovely, fingertips of emotion, and a few steps too smart for me.
no subject
Date: 2007-07-27 02:16 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-07-27 07:05 pm (UTC)