Work Text:
There's a chill in the air tonight, not quite driving everybody to absolute misery, but just biting enough that a couple of hours ago, Hawk helped John roll down the flaps on the tent with fingers that would've ached without their gloves.
Honestly, though? It's kind of nice. Like being tucked in a blanket fort back home under the dining room table. If John closes his eyes, he can almost feel Cathy and Becky there, curled up with a bowl of popcorn, whispering and giggling and—
The pang comes. The agony. John huffs as he rubs the bridge of his nose and kicks out a leg over the edge of his cot. It's not his first fucking war, but it's the one that's eating at him the most. Keeps thinking he's gonna get used to it, and then here comes another punch in the gut in one way or another—a shitty string of patients in OR, a hungry orphan, a whiff of perfume from a lady that smells just like Louise.
There's a couple of ways he can go about shutting his head off tonight. One, he waits for Hawk to get done with his post-op shift and they go hunting nurses. Two, he leans over and grabs some gin and gets the party started early. Three, he saunters around camp until he finds a taste of heat that chases all the longing away by himself.
He could say that he knows why he's waiting for Hawk, ooooooor he can just casually pretend he doesn't.
It's kind of like making tea instead of settling for the mud they call coffee in the mess tent. Setting the scene. Getting his mug ready, whatever bag he wants from the most recent care package Louise sent his way. Sprawling out lazily while he listens to the water begin to stir. The tickling of the bubbles, the rising heat, the anticipation. Knowing that even when the kettle begins to whistle, the tea's still gonna have to steep good and slow, color blooming in the water in dizzying swirls, long before he'll ever take that first hot, bitter sip onto his tongue.
John's not a fancy guy, but his lips twitch all the same at his mind's wanderings. Listen to him. He keeps this up, somebody's gonna start thinking he's like those classy Boston types—the ones who look at guys like him and sneer 'cause they think they know everything that John McIntyre is with a single glance.
These few months have been the scene-setting, he decides. The kettle's been heating. Inside, it's starting to sweat. Every time he and Hawk lock eyes in OR, each moment their shoulders brush when they're tight in a Jeep, the temperature's been rising. This silent sense of waiting to see which one of them is gonna flinch forward first.
Honestly, he's not sure what Hawk's been waiting on—he's as bent as some fucking Hohmann retractors. Hell, John would've gone for it ages ago if he didn't enjoy the tension as much as the release.
Speaking of tension...
Why not?
In the name of chasing off the ache with an appetizer before the main course, he tugs his glove off with his teeth and lets it drop on his chest, then spits in his palm. Maybe later on, he and Hawk'll split a nurse, and John'll take his time good and slow just so he can tease Hawk for letting go too fast, watch him flush as he grins and tries to find his words to shit talk him right back. Now? He's just gonna take the edge off.
Without a hint of shame, he shoves his pants and boxers down around his thighs. The flaps are down. Hawk's in post. Frank's off with Margaret, no matter what his shitty little excuse was. Anybody walks in here without a knock, it's their own fault what they see.
He's got a million fantasies to choose from, but the problem with thinking about Hawkeye is he's bound to swim straight to the surface. He's a little piece of work, isn't he? Pretty eyes and a soft mouth and long fingers, shoulders that are begging to be pinned down, tiny fucking legs that ought to be held against his chest while he's getting pounded. He's got these incredible noises he makes too, so many that almost sound like perplexed questions, like he needs permission to feel the pleasure that makes them bubble out of him in the first place.
As John works at himself, he chews on his bottom lip and lets out a ragged breath. Fuck, it really doesn't take much with somebody like Hawk. All he has to do is think about him pressing his hands into the wall, peeking over his shoulder, lashes low and coquettish as he arches his back. Or, God, no, maybe Hawk grabbing him by the shirt and throwing him in the dentist chair, pinning him there with a hand on his belly while he yanks John's pants down and sucks him straight down to the hilt with a groan. Shit, the thought of being nose to nose with him in the pitch black darkness of supply, the heat of their breath tickling each other's lips as they jerk each other off hard and fast until Hawkeye starts to whine and John has to muffle him with a palm tight around his jaw—
The door creaks. A rush of wind. And John turns his head to see a wide pair of blue eyes, almost hidden under windswept black bangs.
The kettle, it seems, has come to a boil.
John bites back the urge to moan, but he can't stop himself from fucking up into his fist. "You wanna give the whole compound a show?" he growls.
Hawkeye darts in and all but slams the door behind him. "Jesus, Trap," he murmurs, thick as molasses.
"Ain't you supposed to be in post-op?" Maybe he should stop. Check in. Anything. But as he twitches in his grasp, another bead of precum slicking his grip, he also reminds himself that Hawk could've just walked right back out that door.
"Yeah, Henry needed..." Hawkeye won't stop staring at his dick. He takes a step forward, then shies back again, turning his head slightly even though his eyes stay right where they are, goading John to all but strip his cock from how fast he's jerking it. "H-He, uh, I'd forgotten to grab..."
Of course this would be how it happens, something this fucking random, Hawk looking like he's died and gone to heaven while John goads him on. He can't help but smirk. "Cat got your tongue, honey?" he teases breathlessly. "Shame. Could'a used that someplace else."
There it is, that punched-out groan, curved up just so right at the end. Hawk grabs the front of his own shirt, twisting it into a fist. He takes another step forward, then sits on the edge of his cot. "I-I've really gotta..."
John can see it, the wave of hunger all but overwhelming his bunkie. His sense of goddamn duty is the frail dam that's holding it at bay. "You better get back," he breathes.
Hawkeye meets his gaze, sharp as a dagger. There's one, two, three seconds of searing contact before he licks his lips. "Do it. C'mon, Trap, let me see it."
"Fuck..." John tips his head back with a grunt, letting the fire overtake him. "Yeah, you want it, Hawk?"
"Right fucking now, Trap, I don't have time for this."
Little fucking brat. John's so far gone for him. He bucks off the bunk with a sharp moan, doesn't give a shit about how he paints his shirt in his release. He rides it out, stroking himself until it hurts, until he's shivering in the thin sheet with a satisfied grin.
When he rolls his head to the side and opens his eyes, Hawk looks almost pissed, he's so focused on him. John's smile widens. "I'll see you after your shift, huh?"
Hawkeye takes a deep breath. He shoves something in his pocket, then gets to his feet, comes across the room, and reaches for him. John half thinks he's gonna pull him up for a kiss, but no. Hawkeye grabs his wrist and sucks his slick fingers into his mouth. John sits up with a punch of oversensitized agony in his gut, groaning as he watches Hawk clean the cum off his digits.
Hawkeye gives him one last look before he darts back out of the tent, leaving John boneless, pleased, and counting the seconds.