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"Now, hold on just a minute," Henry's murmuring under his breath when Trapper and Hawkeye burst into the office.
Trapper, as always, lets Hawkeye take the lead by an inch and follows behind, dropping into the chair beside the one that Hawk claims. It's got a pretty decent view of the screen that they'll be showing Henry's newest stag film on. Call him overeager, but the second Radar had popped his head into the Swamp for mail call and told them that the colonel was looking for them, Trap had practically torn through the tent wall in his rush to get to the main event.
Hawkeye sinks deeper into the seat, crossing his legs at the knee. "What's the hold up, Henry?"
"Yeah," Trapper immediately tags on. "We were about to brush up on our anatomy with the magazines we just got in. You should'a been set up already."
Henry ignores them at first, holding the film closer to his face and squinting. "Oh, rats," he finally mutters. "You've gotta be kidding me."
Hawk leans in with wide eyes. "Don't tell me."
"This isn't Barbara Blushes." Henry drops the film back into its box with a huff. "It's Mr. Barbelldere Goes to the Gym."
Though this title doesn't mean anything to Trapper in particular, Hawkeye flings himself forward to see the case for himself. "You're kidding me. You bought us a bodybuilder movie?"
Henry's cheeks immediately turn pink. "Well, how would I know what it is?" The moment he sits back down, he squirms in his seat and twiddles his thumbs.
"What do you mean, body..." Trapper trails off as the context clues swim into stark clarity. Oh. That kind of bodybuilder movie. "Henry, how the hell could you mess up that bad with your order?"
Henry's jaw drops in indignation. "Well, why is this my fault? Radar's the one who sent the order in! Heck, for all we know, it could be the company's foul-up."
"Yeah, but you're more fun to blame," Hawkeye drawls. "It's good for a man your age to get his heart rate up."
"I'm 45, not in an old folks' home."
They rattle on. Meanwhile, Trapper can't tear his eyes off of the film canister. He's heard about these, of course, both from pearl-clutchers and jeering jocks mocking a particularly muscular football teammate, but he's never actually seen one in person. The closest he's gotten is when he and Hawkeye were in Seoul the month before. Hawk had made a beeline for a newspaper stand on the Ginza and had cheerfully selected nudist magazines to add to his exponential collection. But right below them had been two magazines, ones he couldn't remember the names of now no matter how hard he might try. It's because he had been so stunned by the cover models, huge and hulking men flexing their giant, shiny muscles. The covers had promised all kids of tips for improving one's workout regime. Trapper had been grateful that everyone knew he'd given up on getting fit the minute that he won that damn boxing match. Otherwise he might have been forced to purchase one.
When Henry raises his voice, it jolts Trapper back to the present and tears his gaze from the canister. "I'm telling you, this is Radar's fault." Henry shakes his finger at the door. "I oughta go out there and give him a piece of my mind. Boy, you know, he doesn't mess up all that much, but when he does, it sure costs me." He gets to his feet.
"Wait, wait, wait, hold on." Hawkeye grabs the film and comes up behind the projector. He cocks his head in what Trapper recognizes as intense concentration as he begins to set everything up. "Don't be too hasty, Henry. You never know. Could be plenty of girls in the background. Shower antics. Good, clean fun for the whole family."
"You're not serious." Trapper stares at Hawk with wide eyes. "I know I'm not hearing you right."
Hawkeye blinks at him. "Well, why not? It'll be a laugh."
"'Cause I didn't come here for a laugh," Trap says slowly. "I came here for a good show."
"And you won't know if it is one or not unless you check it out."
"Pierce," Henry murmurs. "You don't have to—"
"Got it!" Hawk beams like the cat who ate the canary as he comes around the projector. "Lemme just take care of the liiiiiights," he trills. "Henry, you wanna throw me the keys while I'm up?"
Henry stiffens and turns pinker still. "For what?"
As though it's obvious, Hawk cocks out a hip and lifts his brows. "Because whether we're laughing or not, the last thing any of us needs is Hot Lips and Ferret Face walking in on us."
He's being ridiculous. This is just one big gag, isn't it? In the next 10 seconds, Henry and Hawkeye are going to start cackling and teasing Trapper about the look on his face. Caught up in Hawk's infectious energy, Trapper grins, ready for the punch line.
But then Henry simply heaves a sigh and pulls out his keys. "It's the—"
"I know which one it is." Hawkeye gets ready to catch them, then yelps and covers his face right before the key ring hits him in the arm. After a disdainful glance toward the offending object, Hawk throws up an okay symbol while he bends to pick them up.
The moment the lights go out, plunging the room into almost total darkness, Trapper breaks out in a cold sweat. Each passing second lifts the possibility that this is not a joke. They're actually going to... What the fuck. They can't be about to watch it. After all, they don't come here for a good show and nothing else. None of them comment on it, but it's pretty clear what they're up to when they're in here for one of these. Their hands wander. They've never downright opened up their pants or something, but they've certainly rubbed themselves over their trousers.
Trapper stares straight through the white screen, trying to imagine anything but those bodybuilder cover models. Maybe the film is just mislabeled. Maybe it is Barbara Blushes and he's about to be treated to a short film about a shy, busty brunette being flustered by wearing a short dress on a windy day.
And maybe it's not. He grabs fistfuls of his jacket and squeezes them hard. The click of the lock seals his fate.
Why the hell are you acting like this is a big deal? You're a goddamn doctor. You see bodies every day. And isn't it gonna be funny when you see a bunch of beefcakes straining themselves from how much they're showing off? Logical thoughts. Wise ones. He shivers from head to toe, shaking off the nerves as best he can, and slouches as far down in his chair as he can comfortably go. "We got booze?"
"Of course we've got booze!" Hawkeye says cheerfully as he drops back into his seat. They're so close to each other, elbows practically touching. "Ah, garçon?" He snaps his fingers. "A bottle of your most expensive wine to table 8, please."
"Well, you're the one with the keys, Pierce," Henry mutters. "Get it yourself."
"Oh, all right." Hawk hops to his feet, filled with more energy than Trap's seen from him since Hawkeye's first week in camp. He's humming, actually humming, like they're going for a leisurely Sunday drive. Trapper turns so he can stare at him, how he goes to the projector instead and fiddles with it, and after another moment, it kicks on. Hawk makes a pleased little sound. Then he drops the keys on the edge of Henry's desk and settles back down by Trapper's side.
The movie is already running. Trapper swallows the knot in his throat, then nudges Hawk. "What about my booze?"
Hawk snaps his fingers. "Dammit. Must've slipped my mind. Sorry, pal."
He doesn't sound sorry at all. In fact, he's pleased as punch, the little shit. If this isn't a joke, then it's because Hawk wants to get a rise out of him, wants—
Trap catches Henry watching him then from behind his desk. In a flash, Trapper has his gaze glued to the screen.
A tall, lean, dark-haired man is in an apartment, flexing his tiny arms in front of a mirror. No matter what pose he takes, he can't get a damn bit of muscle definition to show up. "Thought this was a bodybuilder movie," Trapper drawls. "Who the hell is that string bean?"
"I bet that's Mr. Barbelldere," Hawkeye replies.
Trap scoffs. "Fella's got a long way t'go before he can claim that name."
Hawkeye taps his boot against Trapper's. "Well, sure! Why do you think he's going to the gym?"
Hawk's got a point. The guy's clearly disappointed at what he sees. In no time at all, he's in shorts and a t-shirt and strolling with great purpose toward a gymnasium on the corner of a busy street.
This is what Trapper expected. The moment the man steps inside, there are no less than twelve fellows working out in the large main fitness area. Christ, every one of them is fucking huge, muscles bulging, veins thick and pronounced, making everything they do look so effortless. They're in the tiniest shorts and tank tops imaginable, and a few are even shirtless. They gleam with sweat. When the camera cuts to their illustrious hero rubbing his hands together in front of a set of weights, Trapper actually jolts, fuzzy-headed, feeling a little lost. God, he needs more fucking coffee after they're done here.
"There!" Hawk crows, pointing. "There, there, see?"
Trap furrows his brows. Though he leans in Hawk's direction and tries to view the world through his eyes, he draws a blank. "Whaddya mean?"
Hawk slaps him on the arm. "Will you look already? Behind the desk there, in the back."
He gets exactly one second before the angle changes. "What was that, a broad?"
"I told you we were in business. You see that rack she's got?"
"What I see's a fella who's about to hurt himself."
Sure enough, the moment their intrepid hero attempts to lift the overloaded weights, he winces and doubles over, grabbing his back, expression twisted in pain. The camera cuts to one muscular man looking over curiously before he bursts into laughter and slaps his buddy on the arm. Then all of them gather around, pointing, cackling, and miming overblown sadness while pretending to lift invisible barbells.
Trapper finally tears his gaze away from the screen, and as it often does, it goes straight to Hawkeye. Hawk is rapt, lips parted, a hint of color in his cheeks. Trap's seen him like this at least a dozen times, half of which were spent in this very room with just barely clothed women on display. His expression is what Trapper has always focused on. Not whatever Hawk might be doing below the belt. Never that.
Without sound in the movie, Trapper can hear every little noise. How Hawk's breathing hitches. The rustle of his fatigues as he shifts in his seat. When Hawkeye suddenly barks a laugh like a hyena, Trapper whips his head back around and stares at the movie. "Did, did you see—"
"'Course I did." Never mind that Trap blurting it that quickly is a sure-fire way to know that he didn't. But maybe Hawk won't pick up on that. Just because Hawkeye's the best friend he's ever had doesn't mean...
Except Hawkeye is looking at him. Even if Trap couldn't see him in his peripheral vision, he'd feel the tell-tale prickling on his skin from being so closely watched. He risks a glance. Hawkeye is smirking. Though Trap's pulse takes off like a sprinter, it's sheer instinct to scowl. "What're you smilin' about?"
"You," Hawk murmurs in that deep, buttery smooth tone he has, making Trapper's throat dry up. He's never really understood what it is about Hawkeye's voice that gets Trapper hot under the collar sometimes. Probably just a master charmer at work. Nobody's immune to that when he really cranks it up. It's why every nurse falls into his bed eventually no matter how they might act like they're too good for Hawk.
Hawkeye's still looking at him. Trap's been staring right into those blue eyes without so much as noticing. "Oh yeah?" Trap asks. "And why's that?"
Hawk chuckles. "You look scared to death, that's why."
"Of what?" Trapper's voice cracks. "What the hell's there to be scared about?" There, that sounds better.
"I dunno. Why don't you tell me?" Hawk tilts his head.
"Pierce." Henry's been quiet for so long that Trapper jumps. And that's interesting, isn't it? That Henry, who's a notorious commentator, has been so silent. "That's a pretty tall tree you're barking up."
"Not if there's nothing to be scared of."
Every muscle in Trapper's body tenses. If he pretends there's nothing weird going on here, then Hawkeye will leave him alone and they'll get through this thing intact and...and why is he making such a big deal about it anyway? He slouches in his chair and kicks a leg out in a display of faux casualness while turning his attention back to the screen.
Just when he's feeling like he's on the right track, Hawkeye drapes an arm over the back of his chair and leans in so their legs press flush together. Why the hell did Henry set up these seats so goddamn close? He can't pull away either, not without looking suspicious. "So why don't we get this straight?" Hawkeye's breath warms the shell of his ear. "There's nothing weird going on here, right?"
In the movie, Barbelldere is sneaking into a locker room. Steam billows out of a wide and open doorframe to the left, but there's no way to see what's inside. It doesn't matter. Trapper can imagine. Men. Men showering. Slick with water and soap, standing shoulder to shoulder, their skin searingly hot, their tight muscles relaxing under the gentle pummeling of the spray. Trapper gulps. "Nah. Nothin' weird at all."
"We're just messing around. Right?"
Now Barbelldere creeps through the locker room on tiptoes, turning his head this way and that to make sure no one else is present. He opens one of the lockers, then grins from ear to ear at the sight of a fresh pair of clothes. Once he selects a nearby duffel bag on a bench, he begins scurrying around the room, grabbing every single piece of clothing that he can find, and he shoves them all into the bag. Bold motherfucker. Trapper begins tapping his shoe on the floor. "S'just a silly movie," he decides. "Like the Three Stooges or somethin'."
Fire blooms where Hawkeye trails a finger over his shoulder. "Exactly. And nothing that happens in here ever leaves the room."
That's true. The only time it did was when Hot Lips walked in on them demanding her transfer and he's pretty sure the booze wiped her mind clean of that part of her evening.
Then he brushes over the back of Trapper's neck. "Trap, do you trust me?" he murmurs right against his ear.
"Yeah," Trapper whispers right away. He doesn't have to hesitate because there isn't a world in existence where he wouldn't trust Hawkeye with his life.
Hawk hums in delight. Like it often does, the sound of Hawkeye being pleased with him covers his body with goosebumps. "Then here's what you're gonna do for me. Keep your eyes right on the screen. You're not gonna look away for a second. Just enjoy yourself."
Barbelldere is running out of the gym now, circling behind it to an alleyway where he tosses the duffle bag straight into the dumpster. Oh boy. Trapper takes a deep breath. "And what're you gonna do?" he asks.
"I'm gonna be enjoying myself too." Then he pats Trapper firmly on the shoulder and slips out of his chair. "Remember. Don't peek."
There is a very small but loud part of Trapper that immediately tries to put blinders on himself. Don't peek? Sure, he can do that. He would do just about anything that Hawkeye asked of him. After all, didn't he throw himself into training just because Hawkeye insisted that it would have to be him if they were going to keep Margie around? Hasn't Trapper gone along with every little scheme that Hawk's ever come up with? If Hawkeye wants him to keep his eyes on the screen, then it's because there'll be a bigger payoff in the end if he obeys.
But that doesn't mean he can't listen.
"Well, well, what've we got here?" Hawkeye drawls, voice curling with amusement.
"Just got a little tension," Henry replies breathily. "It comes with having to put up with you and McIntyre every single day."
"That's not what I'm talking about."
"Pierce..."
"Shh."
In the movie, the men have just come to realize that their clothes are gone. They're wearing nothing but their towels, ones that are knotted so precariously low that they could fall off at any second. As they throw open lockers and go digging through their belongings, Barbelldere stands right outside the locker room, covering his mouth as he snickers, shoulders shaking. It's really remarkable how long this scene goes on. They get just that one look at Barbelldere before the cameras have zoomed in on torsos with sharply defined abs, pectorals that have lingering water droplets slowly coursing down, nipples hardened from the cooling air, and chiseled jaws that you could cut through butter with.
This is torture. Trapper curls his hands into such tight fists, he swears he's about to break through the skin. These lingering shots stir something inside of him, frothing up his blood into a foam. He's burning alive. See, there's a reason why he learned all the way back in junior high to keep his eyes off the other guys when they were cleaning up after gym, and it's because anybody with a brain who is exposed to this much bare skin is going to have a hell of a time not getting turned on. It doesn't matter which sex they might be. A human body's wired for an immediate response to nudity. Never mind that he never gets hard when he's with patients in a state of undress. That's different. But this? The invitation to stare as long as he wants and to think about how a woman would moan the second these men got their hands on her? How the hell is he not supposed to be immediately bursting out of his pants?
Fatigues quietly rustle to his right. Then the unmistakable sound of a tinkling belt buckle. An audible shudder. Henry's fainter, "What are you—" and Hawkeye shushing again. And all at once, Trapper stops breathing.
Something is about to happen. Something very big. Something that, when he gives it even the tiniest amount of thought, isn't surprising in the least bit. Not when it's Hawkeye.
On the screen, the action has slowed down dramatically in pace, still focused on the bodies of these men as they search for the thief who stole their clothes, but frankly, Trapper isn't paying it any mind. All of his attention is on what he's hearing. On what he knows with a trembling confidence is coming next.
Hawkeye has been a constant companion when it comes to double dates, always eager to put on his charms and go nurse hunting with him. He's uninhibited. Trapper has always been careful to keep his entanglements just out of sight even if they're out in the open with one another, but Hawkeye seems to have no such shyness, and though Trap's never seen him fuck a woman, he's heard more than enough to give him some interesting mental images about what his bunkie gets up to. Hungry moans. Skin slapping together rhythmically.
Fuck. Trapper shifts in his seat and crosses his legs. This is really not the time to think about how good Hawkeye can give it to a woman, how often he'll have a girl chanting his name and begging for everything he's got. There are more pressing thoughts at the moment. Like why he doesn't hear Henry ordering Hawkeye to stop whatever the hell it is that he's doing.
Call it what it is, coward.
If Trapper is familiar with Hawkeye's MO at all, then he's willing to bet that he's about to get on his knees and put his mouth to good use. And the fact that Trapper knows this with such confidence is enough to dizzy him. Because of course Hawkeye would. Hawk, the biggest sissy this unit's ever seen, the kind of fella that Trap's dad would've ripped into him for socializing with, of course he's doing this. But for what? Is he getting some kind of special privileges from Henry? He sucks Henry's dick and Hawkeye gets all the booze and fine treatment that he could ever want? After all, Trapper's seen Hawkeye with women. He knows that he's not a homosexual, not with how hungrily he chases them down.
This does not change the fact that when Hawkeye hums warmly, Henry shivers and gasps. "Why don't you sit back and enjoy the movie, Henry?" Hawkeye's voice is so quiet that Trapper has to strain to hear it.
"But—"
"It's all under control. Don't worry about a thing."
"This isn't a game, Pierce," Henry hisses.
"Trapper?" Hawkeye calls.
Trap stiffens in his seat. "Yeah?"
"You having a good time with the movie, pal?"
Bastard. He knows he's being tested. Even worse, he desperately wants to pass. After one last moment to ask himself if he's really going to let this happen, Trapper takes a deep breath. "Yeah, Hawk."
"See?" Quiet as he is, Hawk's smugness bleeds through. Always so self-assured. Never off-footed for a moment. Fuck, Trapper wants that. He wants it so fucking badly.
The instant that Henry lets out a low groan, Trapper's neck snaps around, but he gets only a single glimpse before he's staring at the film again. It doesn't matter how quick it was. It's painted on the inside of his eyelids now. Henry's head tipped back, eyes closed, hands tight around the arms of his chair. And the faintest edge of floppy, black hair peeking up over the desk, the sight accompanied by quiet kisses and suckles that are still blooming although he's looked away.
In the movie, the muscular men have finally found Mr. Barbelldere after strenuous pursuit. They have their hands all over him, bullying him into the main room of the gym, straight toward the front window. There is no mercy. Regardless of what he might want, the men are pulling his clothes off, stripping him down to a simple pair of white briefs. Humiliating him.
"Jiminy Christmas," Henry all but moans.
"Yeah, you like that?" Hawkeye murmurs, pleased as punch. "Want a little more?"
"Well, that depends on what you've got, doesn't it?"
"How 'bout you scoot your chair back and you'll see?"
The moment Henry's chair scrapes the floor, Trapper's body takes over. He looks. He stares. He gets an eyeful of how Henry pushes as far back as he can go. With Trapper's height, it means that even sitting, he can see Hawkeye come into view, head tipped back, and it takes very little effort to imagine Hawk's shit-eating grin. Those clever hands he has rub up and down Henry's thighs. Then Hawk tilts so he can press his lips to Henry's shaft—fuck, he's looking at Henry's hard cock right now, what the fuck is he doing—and Henry groans and positively melts.
Henry isn't packing a lot in terms of length, but with every passing second that he hardens further still, Trapper can't help but admire his girth. Trap knows a little something about thick cocks himself, and honestly if he could have Henry's girth without his own massive length, he feels as though he'd have to be a lot less careful and do far less apologizing like he does when he bucks a little too deep inside of a woman. No wonder Leslie never showed interest in another man. Neurotic as Henry often is, Trapper can imagine he left her plenty satisfied.
Even in the low light, the bright white from the film shines against Hawkeye's tongue, making it glisten as he drags it slowly, slowly, slowly along the side of Henry's shaft. He acts as though there is nothing more important in the world than this moment, this task, driving Henry absolutely out of his mind.
What would it feel like to have that kind of concentration focused on Trapper and Trapper alone?
Trapper becomes aware of his own hard cock when it suddenly begins aching, straining against his pant leg, and Trap snaps a hand out to try and hide it under his palm. Instead, the pressure only makes his cock begin to weep. Fuck. Fuck. There's no beautiful woman on screen to cause this. The only thing happening in this room is Hawkeye beginning to suck Henry down. And he's hard. Hawkeye and Henry have made him hard.
Henry sinks his fingers into Hawkeye's hair, but Hawk grabs both of Henry's wrists and pins them to his armrests, and Henry's mouth drops open with a whine. Hawk bobs his head like he's running out of time on his lunch break. Such a hurry. Why is that? What else is there to do today? It can't be because this is an obligation. Is he that hungry to make Henry come?
When Trapper finds himself thumbing over his own cock, he sits on both hands. It doesn't matter that he's so turned on because of them, he is not fucking jerking himself off to it. What the hell would Hawkeye say if he knew Trapper was holding his breath so he can catch every tiny slick sound? He'd probably laugh at him, wouldn't he? If there's some... If there's something going on inside of Trap, it doesn't matter because if Hawk was interested in him, he would've made a move a long time ago. Hawkeye doesn't play long games. He takes what he wants in the moment and then he moves on.
It doesn't matter how many times Hawkeye has put his hands on him or bodily moved him out of the way or crowded up close to a microscope so they're breathing the same air or caught Trapper's shoulder with a squeeze whenever he lost a patient or...
Understanding slams into him like an ambulance flying through the compound. Oh, fuck.
"Pierce," Henry whispers, his chair beginning to creak from how he rocks his hips. "Jumping Jehoshaphat, you sure know how to kill a man, don't you?"
Hawkeye chuckles—rich, deep, velvety—before he moans and sinks down so far that Henry's fingers begin to spasm. Henry still can't get free from his grasp, Trapper can tell that much. He has to take what Hawkeye gives him or get nothing at all. Fuck, is Hawkeye sucking all of him? Is he swallowing around him, lips stretched obscenely, mouth open so wide so he doesn't so much as graze him with his teeth? But then he softly says, "C'mon, Henry, don't miss the movie. They worked so hard to get it to us. You need to appreciate it." And Henry bites his bottom lip as he opens his eyes and stares at the screen again.
Trapper could give less of a shit what's happening in the damn film. Hollywood demands a certain level of perfection from their stars, and even though this is clearly not something that would've been shown in theaters or had a red carpet premiere, their bodies are just chiseled enough to look completely fake to him, like somebody painted them on instead. Men like that were a hell of a lot easier to keep his attention off of back in his football playing days than some other types.
What's distracting him now are the two men sitting on the other side of the room. Fellas he's brushed shoulders with, checked up on after hard sessions, gotten drunk with to forget how shitty this place is, played golf with, showered beside, held up with his back against theirs in OR. Sometimes he thinks he knows their laughs better than his own. He's not sure he'll ever forget the exact buttons he needs to press to make Henry frustrated. And he's sure as hell never going to forget Hawkeye Pierce.
I'd fuck Hawkeye. The thought is somehow the gentlest revelation he's ever had. I'm not a homosexual, but I'd fuck him. Hell, maybe...maybe if Hawkeye wanted to...
Henry's shaky groan cuts off that thought process and Trapper immediately slams the door shut on it.
Suddenly Henry jolts. "Oh, ffffiddlesticks," he hisses, "right there, Pierce, huh?"
"Mmm?" Hawk hums like it's an amused question.
Trapper barely realizes that he's hovering an inch off his chair, thighs straining to keep himself perfectly level. It gives him just enough height to watch Hawk pull off to the tune of Henry's disappointed whimper, then leave a trail of suckling kisses down his shaft until he runs the flat of his tongue along one of Henry's balls. The moment he sucks it into his mouth, Henry stomps his boot. "You're killing me. You're killing me."
Hawkeye chuckles. "But what a way to go, huh? You gonna keep these here for me, big guy?" He pats Henry's wrists.
Henry huffs, but he nods, white-knuckling the chair arms. "Just, just don't make me wait forever, huh? All I need's a few ambulances showing up right now."
"What, you don't wanna operate with blue balls? Isn't that exhilarating?" Hawk teases.
"How about I exhilarate you with back-to-back post-op shifts?" Henry fires back.
Hawkeye giggles—giggles—before getting his hands on Henry's thighs, spreading them further, then swallowing him back down with a hungry hum. One of his thumbs draws little circles on Henry's pelvis while his other palm cradles his sack, gently rolling them while he bobs his head as quick as he can, and Henry looks about two steps away from shooting into the stratosphere.
It would be easy to jerk off to this. To two men fucking around. To Henry's gasps and moans. To Hawkeye's filthy slurps. To how simple it is for Hawk to take their lovable commanding officer and turn him into a puddle of goo with nothing but his mouth and fingers. Fuck, Trapper's so hard that he wants nothing more than to rip his pants off just to get some breathing room. He wonders if Henry's fucked Hawkeye in that big, comfy bed of his. He wonders if Hawkeye's fucked Henry in it.
It would be so fucking tight, wouldn't it? To be inside somebody's ass? Even hotter than a pussy?
What would it feel like to experience it on the other side?
This time, the door that flies open in his mind is a wind tunnel, and before Trapper can react—can grab hold of safety—he's being sucked out into the vast, open space of the unknown. Hawkeye is there. Hawkeye is above him as they free fall, holding Trap in place with his hands on his hips, smirking at him with such cockiness. He knows how to make it good. He knows exactly how to make a man melt for him. He's done this a thousand times. All Trapper has to do is spread his legs for him.
Trap sits heavily back down in the chair. He's trembling too hard to hold himself up anymore.
"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Henry whispers, eyes squeezed shut. "Oh, just like that, honey, don't stop..."
The high moan that slips out of Hawkeye is almost enough to make Trapper pass out. Is he really into this? Honestly? Is it getting him off to know how desperate Henry is for him?
Henry gasps and stiffens, arching his back. "That's it... I-I'm so close, I'm..." And after another moment, Henry grits his teeth and grunts, and Trapper strains his neck to see what Hawkeye does.
Hawkeye swallows. He takes every last drop. Holy shit.
Trapper turns to the screen. The movie's long since ended. There's nothing to distract him from the way Hawkeye chuckles and how Henry audibly shudders when his cock slips out of Hawk's mouth with a pop. He makes it exactly two more seconds before he looks back against his will.
Hawkeye begins coming to his feet while Henry recovers. He's so feline at this moment, a satisfied cat licking the cream still left on the edges of his lips. Then he stretches his arms with a groan, even coming onto his tiptoes to get the full length of him taken care of. A slim strip of belly peeks out when his shirt rides up. He can barely see the thin trail of hair that disappears into his trousers. His fringe falls over his eyes and when he pushes it back into place by running his fingers through it twice, Trapper finds himself holding his breath.
To save his own skin, Trapper stares at the screen so hard that he could burn holes through it. Like hell is he looking away from it again.
"You good?" Hawkeye asks softly, words not meant for his ears.
"Good?" Henry barks a laugh. "You've got me so loose, you could put me to sleep."
"Well, I appreciate you not succumbing until I finished you off," Hawkeye replies with delight. "Though, on the other hand, I bet you would've had some lovely dreams."
"You wouldn't have stopped?"
"Are you kidding? You think I'd get off that dick before I was satisfied?" Hawk sighs. "You know, Henry, sometimes you really are just the cutest."
"I don't care how much you sweet-talk me, you're not getting a pass," Henry murmurs in a playful sing-song tone.
While the tell-tale tinkling of metal suggests that Henry's getting his clothes put back together, there is also the unmistakeable sound of footsteps. Boots. To his right. Closer. Hawkeye circles behind until he's in front of him, studying Trapper with a smirk. "I thought I told you not to peek."
Trap's heart stops dead. "How the fuck'd you know?"
The smirk widens. "Because you, bunkie, just confirmed it for me."
Goddammit. It's embarrassing how easy Trap made that for him. If Hawkeye wasn't so damn distracting, then Trap could've talked circles around him, or at least until Hawk left it alone.
Then Hawk puts one hand on the back of his chair, snugly pressed against his trapezius, and rests one knee between Trapper's thighs. Trap barely has to move his head at all to see the small but hard bulge in Hawk's trousers. "You like to watch, Trap?" Hawk asks. "Or you just like disobeying me?"
"Hawkeye," Trapper whispers pleadingly.
"Shh." Then there are two fingers resting on his lips, and though he could speak around them, Trap freezes like a statue.
Fuck, his eyes. Such a brilliant icy blue. Right now, at least, Trapper can admit that his pulse has always spasmed when he catches Hawk's gaze with his own. More than once, there has been such a deep fondness in it that Trap's had to look away. He's attributed his knee-jerk response to so many things. Heartburn. Stress. Being dateless for a week and a half. But that's never stopped him from grinning at whatever it is that he turns his attention to and it's never kept him from secretly watching Hawkeye either.
This is what's so perplexing. He's not a homosexual. He's not. He doesn't get hard over the tiniest glimpse of a gorgeous broad just because his dick needs the exercise. He wants them because he wants them. Any other day, he'd think Hawkeye was simply an exception to this rule, someone who combines traits of desirable femininity with more masculine edges. But if that was true...
Henry's chair creaks as he gets to his feet. "Pierce, exactly what kind of trouble are you about to get into?"
"Nothing you haven't seen before," Hawk drawls as he turns his hand and thumbs over Trapper's bottom lip instead, making sparks fly.
"All right, now hold on just a minute." Though Henry's voice is firm, he's not fooling Trap. He always sounds like this right before he lets any semblance of control slip out of his fingers and straight into theirs. "I'm your commanding officer. Whatever it is you do in here, I'm the one responsible for all the paperwork."
As Hawkeye tilts his head, his fringe glistens, catching the low light. He takes another moment. Then he slowly smiles. "I don't think you're gonna have a mess to clean up, Henry. But why don't you come supervise me anyway?"
If that was true—if Hawkeye was nothing more than a special blip on an endless line of women in Trapper's bed—then there is absolutely no reason why Henry making his way to Trapper's side should have him this rigid with anticipation. "McIntyre." Henry touches his shoulders, lighter than a bird. "You know where the door is. No one's gonna stop you from walking through it."
Hawk chuckles. "Speak for yourself." His other hand goes to his belt. He's so goddamn dextrous, working it open with ease. Trapper has no idea how someone who's shaped in a permanent question mark can make some things appear so effortless and graceful, like handling a graft.
He wonders if Hawkeye is going to handle him with that same level of care.
That's another thing he shouldn't let himself focus on. What happens when they leave this room? When reality sets back in? Will Hawkeye shrug off the experience like every other brief entanglement that he's had? This doesn't mean anything, does it? Just two guys testing the boundaries of their friendship, seeing if it can withstand a few laughs.
This wasn't his first time with Henry. His mind somehow knows that as a fact. So if the two of them do this from time to time...would there be room for him too?
The belt falls open and Hawkeye runs his fingers down his button fly, each one slipping free practically instantaneously. Since his thumb is still pressed against Trap's lips, the only thing that Trapper manages is a soft grunt, one that he hopes is casual enough to conceal the growing tidal wave of hunger inside of him. But something about that sound finally makes Hawk's perfect digits stumble, catching on the final button so he has to struggle to get it open. Then as he shoves his trousers and boxers down just enough to bare his cock—his cock, fuck, smaller but perfect in every possible way—Hawkeye rakes his other fingers through Trapper's hair, searing his scalp with his short nails, flooding him with goosebumps. Trap's mouth falls open as he surrenders to the push, lolling back as far as Hawk wants. "Oh, Trap..." Hawkeye's inhale is shaky. "Why don't I give you a real show?" Hawk breathes as he takes himself in hand. "You'd like that, wouldn't you?"
All Trapper can do is make a high, strangled sound in the back of his throat. Oh God, he wants it. He needs it like oxygen. There is nothing more important than Hawkeye's pretty, dripping cock, not a goddamn thing. Those incredible hands are connecting them, one squeezing tight in his curls, the other growing more slick with each stroke.
"So you do like to watch," Henry murmurs. He begins squeezing Trapper's trapezii, massaging the tension right out of them so that heat drips down his spine and continues to pool in his gut.
"Of course he does," Hawkeye says. "He's proud to be a pervert. Aren't you, Trap?"
All of Trapper's jokes about perversion have come into far sharper clarity over the past 20 minutes. He's always laughed about his massive sexual appetite, how eager he is to poach women from boyfriends or husbands for such a good time in the sack that they remember him for the rest of their lives. He's thrilled that these women might think of him every time their husbands are inside of them, might miss the biggest cock they've ever had, might pout because they'll never be filled that full again. Loves risking it all and fucking them in public just out of sight with a hand over their mouth to muffle their desperate moans as they work their hips backward to meet him in the middle.
This is something very, very different. But it's burning him up even hotter than the rest.
The grip in his hair tightens, a quick bite of pain. "Aren't you, Trap?" Hawkeye asks a little louder.
He can't nod, not when Hawkeye has him this restrained. He has to use his voice. Has to make it real. His cheeks boil as he opens his mouth, lets out a wordless breath at first, then finally manages to say, "Yeah. Fuck, yeah, don't stop, c'mon."
Hawkeye moans so filthily that it brings Trapper's arousal to the point of pain, straining against his fatigues. He needs to get it out, needs some kind of relief before he explodes, but he's too transfixed by the blushing head of Hawkeye's cock, how constantly it's leaking. A drop falls and lands on the seat mere millimeters from his crotch. It's probably scaldingly hot. Salty. His mouth waters and he gulps it down, but it's too late. Every carefully tended door in his mind flies open and slams against the walls and there's no shutting them again.
Hawk's panting now, his hand flying, his gaze such a piercing electric blue. Flushed cheeks. Hair in his eyes. Lips parted. The thing is that Trapper likes the look of Hawk looming above him. He likes it very much. Since adolescence, he's been the tallest one in the room. He'd forgotten how relieving it is to be small. Contained. "What do you think, Henry?" Hawk asks. "Should we put him out of his misery?"
"Well, that depends on what he asks for, doesn't it?" Henry's melodic voice caresses Trapper's cheek like velvet. "Sure would be a shame if somebody's wires got crossed and he had to stay juuust like that."
A brief panic bursts inside of Trap. "Please. Don't even joke about that."
"Oh, I don't know. I think it's the least you might deserve after all the times you've busted my little beanbags." But Henry squeezes his shoulders with a certain amount of affection anyway.
Hawkeye hums a thoughtful sound, then shrugs. "Okay. So ask me, Trap."
"I-I wanna come," Trapper blurts.
"I know you wanna come." Hawkeye's hand comes to a stop right at the base of his own cock, squeezing tightly, and Trap whimpers at the sight. Fuck, he's so glad Hawk isn't pretending not to be affected by this just as much as Trapper is. "What I wanna know is how."
"Anything. Anything." Everything. They've been dancing around each other for almost a year. They could be killed in a shelling at any moment. Someone could kick down the door and drag them off to be court-martialed and given a blue discharge. They might not have much time and he needs it, needs to feel what it's like for Hawkeye Pierce to want him in every possible way even for just a moment.
Hawkeye shakes his head. "Uh-uh, Trap, you tell me or I'm not giving you shit."
"I can't fuckin' decide!" If another minute passes without his cock being touched, he might just roll over and die. Trapper grabs Hawkeye's waist in both hands, but he has to take a moment at the feel of him, so warm, so alive, but underfed, a man who needs something he's not getting just as much as Trap. Maybe Trapper could give it to him, whatever it is, something vital and necessary to both of them. "C'mon, Hawk, I don't, I don't know how to do this."
Another thick droplet falls from Hawkeye's cock when it twitches. He grabs a fistful of Trapper's jacket and tugs him forward. "You're sure? You're gonna let me choose?"
"Anything," Trap whispers one more time.
It's there and gone again—a flash of unguarded vulnerability in his eyes—before Hawkeye shoves him against the back of the chair and begins to drop to his knees.
Henry chuckles as Hawk starts ripping Trapper's belt open. "Oh, very creative, Pierce."
"Have you never looked at him in the shower?" Hawkeye asks, apparently unbothered by Henry's teasing tone. "I mean, Christ, I'm only a man. There's only so many times I can see that fat cock swinging back and forth before I can't take it anymore."
Trapper's heart flutters. "Y-You peeked?"
"I stared." The moment Hawkeye gets his pants open, he shoots a look back up at him. "You're not gonna hit me or anything, are you?"
The mere concept is hilarious enough to make him laugh. "Hit a guy who's about to blow me? You kiddin'?"
Hawkeye huffs, but his lips quirk all the same. "So, what, you'd deck me if I jerked you off instead?"
Shit, Hawkeye's beautiful hands wrapped around him? Would he use both so he could give the whole thing a good, thorough tug? He can't help but buck his hips. "Pretty sure that's how a fella ends up uncopulated for the rest of the war."
"Oh, well, if it's copulation you want," Hawkeye drawls, getting his fingers under the waistband of Trap's boxers. "Here I thought we were talking about good, clean, American—fuck." As Trapper's cock bounces free from its restraints, Hawk's eyes go as wide as dinner plates. He even licks his lips. With unsteady fingers, Hawkeye drags Trapper's trousers and boxers all the way to his ankles, then flicks his gaze to Trap's only once before he pushes his shirt up inch by inch. "Don't wanna make a mess, do we?"
God. His balls are already so fucking tight and he hasn't even been teased there yet. "Uh-uh." Trap shakes his head.
"Here. Here." Hawkeye shakes the hem of Trap's shirt until Trapper grabs it and keeps it pulled out of the way. Then he bites his bottom lip and slowly, slowly runs his finger along Trapper's throbbing length, base to tip. Trapper sucks in through his gritted teeth and jolts. It's unfair how the tiniest graze has him ready to beg for relief. "Trap. Where the hell do you get off, having a cock like this?" Hawk's words are as reverent as anything that Father Mulcahy's said.
Where the hell do you get off, giving me a whole other thing to think about when I'm touching myself? Trapper squeezes his eyes shut, trying every trick in the book to keep from exploding like a teenager. Hawk makes this seem so easy. Just lock the door and fuck around with your CO and bunkie. Pretend that there's no way this can go wrong. Give in. Enjoy it. Turn your world upside down, but don't lose your head when you do. Act as though you've known about this desire your whole life. Force yourself to believe that you will not be devastated if this is a one-time thing. Simplicity at its finest.
And then Hawkeye takes him into his mouth and all of Trapper's tough guy act flies out the window with one high moan. "Oh, fuck, fuck," Trapper whispers in a near panic.
"Easy there, McIntyre." Henry whistles as he leans forward and rests his chin on Trapper's shoulder, rubbing patient circles on his breastbone. "By golly, he makes a pretty picture, huh?"
That would require Trapper being capable of looking down without blowing his load the second he sees it. Because Hawk's not just teasing the tip. No, he's already taking his cock deeper and deeper, slowly but steadily, and the groan he lets out vibrates lethally around his shaft. Hawk's clearly not new to this. His lips are going to be so stretched around him that it'll be a wonder he doesn't split them at the edges.
Henry chuckles. "McIntyre..." That sweet little singing tone of his borders on condescending just like the way he'll speak to the nurses when he's in a particular mood, and fuck, but it's not exactly a turn-off to hear it either. Maybe he does want to hand over control so he can stop thinking so hard right now. What about it? "Come on, now, Pierce is giving you a show that's fit to curl your toes. It's only polite to enjoy it, isn't it?"
Hawkeye wraps his hands around the back of Trap's calves, giving them a little squeeze as he sucks hard, teasing the bottom of his cock with his tongue. His mouth is hot and wet and perfect and so, so confident. He can do things that Trapper's only ever experienced with decently paid company, and here Hawk's doing it all for free? Just because he wants to?
Finally Henry cups Trapper's head and guides it to look down. "Now, why don't you take a minute and appreciate all his hard work, huh? Don't make me give you an order. You know it makes me break into hives."
The words are relaxed enough to give Trap the courage to try, at least, to believe that he isn't going to ruin this moment just by feeling too good. So he opens his eyes. And Hawk is already staring at him. Trap was right, he's never seen somebody look so obscene with his cock in their mouth. Hawkeye's lips are red and swollen, shiny with spit. His pupils are blown so wide that Trap can barely see his irises. And the moment Hawk seems to realize that he's not looking away, he whimpers and begins to bob his head with a vengeance.
"Fuck, Hawk," Trapper whispers. His legs are already beginning to trembling from the tension of trying to keep his whole body still. "Oh, fuck..."
Henry chuckles. "That's it. Thar she blows, huh?"
Hawkeye immediately almost chokes on Trapper, shoulders shaking from his unmistakable effort to keep from laughing, but all Trap can manage is a snort and a quirk of his lips before he's drowning in the pleasure all over again.
It's too much, it's all too fucking much, filling his mind with a million fantasies that are going to lay dormant until whenever Hawkeye might catch his gaze knowingly when they're flirting with a couple of nurses or announce that he's off to take a shower with one coy glance over his shoulder. Trapper's set up his own personal minefield at the one place in camp that he could almost call home and now he has to deal with the consequences. If this is all a game to Hawk—and it has to be—then Trapper will have to fight tooth and nail to build up his defenses so that Hawkeye doesn't truly understand how desperate Trap is to be by his side every second of every day.
Shit, he's taking more of him now, a concentrated burning flame in his gaze, so intimately familiar to Trapper. It's the exact look Hawk will wear when he's been told a casualty is too far gone, that it's useless to work on them, and he'll suddenly blaze into a wildfire of determination and make them eat those words. Trapper sinks his nails into his thighs as he twitches, spasms, fights not to cry out in anticipation of what should not be possible but is coming all the same. Hawk goes further. Deeper. Inch by inch. Little by little. Sloppy and wet. And the moment Hawkeye takes one last deep breath before burying Trapper in his suffocatingly tight throat, Henry reaches down to cradles Trap's balls in his palm and gives them a roll.
In the end, it's not a choice to come but an irresistible compulsion. He doesn't know if anybody's ever taken all of him to the point that their nose has brushed his pelvis, and certainly not while someone's fondling him with such a skilled hand. Hawk gags just the once and that's all it takes for Trapper to throw his head back against Henry's shoulder as he shouts and lets go. He has the conflicting urges to hold Hawk there with a fistful of hair or to push him off so he doesn't choke to death. But his mind's too gone to do either. A tsunami of white-hot pleasure crashes through him and leaves Trapper trembling and whimpering with each breath.
"Gosh a'mighty," Henry's whispering when Trap begins to come back from hovering in the stratosphere. "Pierce, I've gotta admit, you've got the best ideas."
Hawkeye rubs his jaw. "Well, with a little inspiration from the Tabasco Film Company of Havana, Cuba, all things are possible." His tone is so lush that Trapper trembles from head to toe. It's an act of immense bravery that leads Trap to meet Hawk's eyes, but the moment they lock gazes, something seems to click into place, something that brings Hawk straight to his feet. "Now, Trap, tell me, what happens next?"
"Huh?" Trapper can't even get a full breath of air yet.
"It doesn't end here, does it?" When Trapper hesitantly shakes his head, unsure what the right answer is, Hawkeye shivers. "You're gonna give me something, aren't you?"
Trap whimpers. "Wh-Whaddya want?"
"What do you want?" Hawkeye looms over him. Without a word, Henry slides an arm around Trapper's shoulders and holds him there against the back of the chair. "Or...let me guess. You don't know, do you? You've never done this. You don't know what's supposed to come after you get your world rocked by a fella with a pretty mouth. You know what's gonna happen?" And he gets a hand around his cock once more, so flushed at the head that it's nearly purple. "I'm the one who's gonna decide. And you're gonna sit back and take it."
A shock shoots through him from head to toe, and despite every part of his upbringing screaming otherwise—the endless advice from priests, his father's fury when he caught Trapper sleeping in the same bed with a friend of his because he was a guy, and the jeering from teammates about their gangly water boy—Trap nods fast enough to hurt his neck.
"Oh, you want it," Hawkeye pants. There is a wildness in his stare that is nothing less than the center of Trapper's entire universe. His hand is flying to the point that his arousal splatters through the air, obscene slick sounds that are almost enough to bring Trap around the bend to getting hard. "You want it bad, don't you? C'mere, baby, open up." Suddenly Hawkeye cups the back of Trapper's head in his other hand and pulls him forward and Trap has exactly one moment to catch his breath before Hawk forces his cock inside of his mouth and shoots cum straight to the back of his throat with a rough groan.
"Mmnh!" Trapper's eyelashes flutter. Fuck, he swallows as best he can, takes spurt after spurt after spurt, even catches himself sucking to coax out everything that Hawk's got, but then all at once it's too much. He gags and pulls back and Hawkeye lets him do so immediately. The last heated trickle runs over and drips down Trap's chin.
Everything happened so fast. Holy shit. He doesn't have the words for any of it. Nor is he prepared for whatever the fuck comes next.
"Here, McIntyre, lemme see the damage," Henry murmurs as he turns Trapper's head toward him. How he manages to do it, Trap has no idea, given that he's still holding the last of the cum in his mouth and his whole neck is frozen up, keeping him from swallowing. Letting him continue to taste it. Fuck, he tastes incredible, salty and warm. Henry's keen eyes land on Trap's mouth. "Aha. I'm just gonna take care of this..." He trails off with that low bedside voice of his as he collects the cum with the pad of his thumb, and when Henry sucks it clean, Trap can't hold back a whimper. "There we are." Henry smiles, the edges of his eyes crinkling. "How're your legs?"
Finally he swallows. "My legs?" Absurdly, Trapper looks at Hawkeye as though he's going to have the answer to this question, but Hawk's just staring down at him with a certain level of...what is that, caution? He's not moving an inch.
"That good, huh? Well, 'til your brain turns back on, you just sit back and I'll be through with you in a jiffy." Henry begins to kneel, then with bulging eyes, he appears to second guess himself. He chooses simply to lean over instead. With incredible care, he tucks Trapper's cock back into his boxers. He has to pause for a second to negotiate it into the right side of them, grinning all the while. "Careful there, little guy, if you get loose, we're gonna have to put a leash on you." Without missing a beat, Henry zips up Trapper's fatigues, then closes his belt. "Y'know, it's nice to see I haven't lost my touch. Getting my kids dressed used to be like trying to reel in a cloud."
"That's why I was never any good at fly fishing," Hawkeye murmurs, his voice still not as strong as it should be. "Couldn't ever get a handle on pulling in anything but the thinnest stratocumuli."
As he so often does, Henry looks past the quip and focuses on the big picture. "Pierce, your, uh...?" He gestures downward.
Hawkeye quirks a brow. "My cock?"
"You can say cock, Henry," Trapper finally manages. Not for the first time, his mouth follows Hawkeye's lead, speaking with remarkable clarity given how the lights in his brain are still flickering. "The missus isn't gonna walk in and slap you on the wrist."
"See, you say that." Now Henry comes up to Hawkeye and begins putting his clothes to rights too. "But you weren't the one living in my house when my wife started putting out the swear jar after my first one was born. Boy, when I tell you how many bruises Lorraine left on me. Didn't hurt as bad as my wallet did, but..."
"Do we get to guess where those bruises were?" Hawk drawls.
"Three of 'em and the first two don't count," Trap says.
Henry grins, giving a little shrug. "Oh, well, you know."
"Trust us." Hawkeye reaches around to grab two handfuls of Henry's ass, then gives them a little shake. "We know." Trapper can't help but laugh, but the moment Hawk stares at him with tentative light in his gaze, Trap lets it die out and clears his throat. Henry, for his part, doesn't appear to be even a little bit upset about the teasing. Bless him, but Henry has a certain kind of way about him when it comes to Hawkeye and Trapper. He spends so much time either having to play the hardass or needing to bail them out of trouble, so whenever he has the chance to be just one of the guys, he grins and gets sheepish and generally looks like he just arrived at his surprise birthday party.
It's a shame they don't get to hover in that space together for very long. The fun's over. They need to unlock the door and get back out there into hell before choppers show up and make them. And Trapper needs to do some good, long thinking about what the hell happened here. How it might change everything, or worse, change nothing at all.
"Well, gentlemen," Hawkeye announces, full of pomp and circumstance. "This has been a riveting discussion about the male physique, but I'm afraid we'll have to cut it short for the day." He grabs the keys, goes straight for the door, and unlocks it, then tosses them back toward Henry's desk. "Trap, uh, can you gimme a hand in x-ray?" He's completely back to normal. They're doctors at a MASH unit in Korea. Anything else is inconsequential.
Trapper grabs all these new urges by the horns and begins the long process of shoving them back into their boxes. "Sure." Even better. His voice is even, easy, calm, relaxed, normal. Normal like Trapper has to remember how to be now.
"Oh, well, that's just fine," Henry calls as they head out. "Don't worry, I'll get this whole thing taken down all by myself!" He sounds admirably put out for a man who's going to invite them right back in the next time they want to hang out.
The stroll through post-op is 70 miles long even considering the fact that Hawkeye is moving at a brisk pace. He doesn't stop to check charts or even to flirt with the nurses on duty. Trapper, meanwhile, simply shoves his hands in his pockets and does his best to keep up.
Once they're at x-ray, Hawk opens the door and holds it ajar while he gives a flourishing bow. "After you, my good man."
"But of course." Trapper's hoity-toity accent usually makes Hawkeye smile, but his lips don't so much as quirk.
The moment the door shuts behind them, Hawkeye seizes Trapper by the lapels and drags him a few steps away before slamming him into the wall and crushing their lips together. It's so shocking that Trap feels a bite behind his eyelids and a whimper in his throat. He's kissing him. Hawk wanted to kiss him badly enough that he took him out of their way to a more private room so he could have Trap all to himself. Trapper throws his arms around Hawkeye and keeps him wrapped up as he tips his head, then opens his mouth for Hawk's tongue the moment he feels it teasing him.
What almost breaks him clean through is how Hawk moves to cradle Trapper's head in his hands. Oh, God, the tenderness here. Holding him like he's something precious. Like a lover. That's what lets his whine escape. For just a moment, Trap has hope that he's not misreading this.
Then Hawkeye breaks the kiss with a gasp that sends a lightning bolt of anxiety straight through Trap. "Fuck..." Hawk rests their foreheads together with a chuckle. "Trap, I need to level with you."
"What is it?" Trapper breathes, heart sinking.
But Hawk steals another kiss, quick as a flash. "I-I don't know how I'm supposed to..." His voice is thick with emotion and Trapper can't stop himself from thumbing over his cheek, drinking up the shuddering hot exhale that tickles his lips. "I'm really not sure I can sleep on the other side of the Swamp and not be thinking about the laundry list of things I want to do to your body. You need to know that. You need to know how difficult it's gonna be, going back to the way things were before."
The glimmer of hope returns to his chest, shimmering weakly, but gaining power with every passing second. It's like jumping off a high dive. He has to be brave. He has to say what he wants, for once, rather than letting Hawkeye guide him every step of the way. "So how 'bout we don't?" Trapper rubs their noses together.
"We don't?" Hawk barely gives the words voice.
"How 'bout we keep doin' this and see what happens?"
There is a long moment of stunned silence. Then Hawkeye bursts out laughing and pulls Trapper away from the wall, spinning them in circles. "Really? You mean it?" Hawkeye's grinning so hard that his eyes are nothing but slits.
"Would I ever lie to you?" Trapper asks with a chuckle of his own.
Hawkeye gives him a suspicious look, but it falls away when he loops his arms around Trapper's neck and kisses him much gentler than before. "I'm not gonna hold back." Kiss. "I mean it." Kiss. "You're gonna get sick of how badly I want you." Kiss. "Not even just in bed, y'know."
Trapper overflows with sunshine. People are going to be able to see the happiness radiating off of him for miles. "Uh-uh, honey. Gonna superglue myself to you. You ain't gonna get away so easy."
They don't have long. They're living on borrowed time here. They risk their lives every day, trapped in a prison that they can't escape until the powers that be deign to release them. But for now, they can sway gently together, not saying a word, just feeling, and Trap plans to make these seconds last for as long as he can.