The Ghosts Still Left Behind

by Arokel

Summary:

Trapper doesn't turn to look at him, but his voice is relieved. "Hawk, thank god. They all got their orders. It's just you and me."

After Trapper leaves, Hawkeye dreams.

Notes:

inspired by the Martinis and Medicine box set on amazon only listing Alan Alda and Wayne Rogers in the cast and Kellan's "AU where Trapper stays and everyone ELSE goes home" comment!

The compound is empty when Hawkeye returns from R&R. No Henry - though that's to be expected, Hawkeye reminds himself with a sharp pang of grief - no Frank, no Hot Lips, no Klinger, no Radar, no anybody. It's eerie.

Maybe they've bugged out, he thinks, as he tips his driver and clambers out of the backseat. Maybe it was such an emergency that they didn't have time to pack up the camp. Maybe Hawkeye is in danger here.

But no; he doesn't hear shelling or any sounds of battle at all. It's silent save for birdsong and the rustle of wind through the canvas tents. The flaps are up in the swamp.

A flash of color catches his eye through the mesh: Trapper's canary-yellow bathrobe, the only bright spot in an otherwise dirty green landscape. He drifts toward it without really making the decision to move, but it is the most logical place to begin his investigation into what the hell is going on.

The swamp is empty, too, although the clutter on the floor between Hawkeye and Trapper's cots is the same as always. Frank's cot has been stripped and his footlocker is gone, Hawkeye notices absently, but he is more focused on Trapper's robe. He feels inexplicably sad at the sight of it without its owner. That robe should be on Trapper, not draped forlornly over Hawkeye's chair. Left behind.

Hawkeye will not leave it behind. He puts the robe on over top of his own, grateful that Trapper is broad enough for the yellow robe to fit over his red one. It should be stifling, but Hawkeye doesn't notice much of a temperature change at all. Strange.

He wanders back out into the empty compound, and, for lack of anywhere better to go, heads for post-op. If the camp left in such a hurry, they might have been forced to leave a few of the less ambulatory patients behind. Hawkeye can help them get to safety, at least.

There are no patients in post-op, but there are noises coming from OR, muttered commands and the low sounds of instruments clinking on trays - the sounds of surgery in progress. Hawkeye pushes inside.

There is Trapper, in his scrubs and cap, hands deep in an abdominal cavity, murmuring instructions to - no one.

"Suture," he says, and grabs the thread from the tray himself with bloody gloves.

"Trap?" Hawkeye asks. His own voice sounds distant to him. "Where is everyone?"

Trapper doesn't turn to look at him, but his voice is relieved. "Hawk, thank god. They all got their orders. It's just you and me. Help me close here."

Hawkeye does. He scrubs up, somehow, or he must have, because he is across the table from Trapper, passing over instruments whenever Trapper asks for them. Hawkeye isn't wearing a mask, but neither is Trapper, so it must be alright.

"Lots of casualties coming through soon," Trapper says. "Just got word. Think we can handle it?"

"We always do," Hawkeye says. He ought to be worried about the lack of nurses or other surgeons, but he can't seem to bring himself to care. He and Trapper can do anything so long as they're together; they don't need anyone else.

"Close for me," Trapper says, and then the patient is gone and a new boy is lying on the table between them, leg torn nearly to shreds. "We can save the leg if we work together."

Of course they can. Together Trapper and Hawkeye are unbeatable. Hawkeye gets to work, Trapper right there with him, and it's almost like magic. His instruments jump into his hand before he even asks for them, as though the whole world is reading his mind. He and Trapper move seamlessly around each other to reconstruct the leg without having to speak. Why did they ever need nurses at all, Hawkeye wonders, if the two of them can manage this well on their own.

The boy is replaced by another, a head wound this time, and then another, and another. Trapper never seems to tire, and neither does Hawkeye. It's exhilarating. This is what surgery was always meant to be.

Eventually, the boys stop coming. Trapper steps back from the empty table to pull off his bloody gloves. His scrubs are perfectly clean.

"Look at that. We make a damn good team," he says, grinning so familiarly at Hawkeye that Hawkeye's chest hurts. "We should have a celebratory toast."

In the swamp, Trapper pours them each a drink. He is back in his yellow robe, and Hawkeye in his red. The world feels right again.

"Will you miss them?" Hawkeye asks.

Trapper laughs, bright and beautiful. "I'm not gonna miss a single thing about this place. Good fucking riddance."

Something about that sits uneasily in Hawkeye's stomach. He changes the subject.

"It'll be a lot nicer around here without Frank breathing down our necks."

Suddenly Trapper is beside Hawkeye on his cot, warm thigh pressed against Hawkeye's, and whereas before Hawkeye didn't notice the temperature, now he is burning up.

"Can I tell you a secret?"

"Of course," Hawkeye says, holding his breath. He thinks he knows what Trapper is about to say. It's inevitable, the two of them, and now that it really is just the two of them they can finally give in to it.

"I've been waiting for him to leave," Trapper says. He tilts Hawkeye's face towards his with a finger beneath the chin, eyes molten and grin wicked. "Couldn't do this with him here."

They are kissing, then, Trapper's lips warm and perfect against Hawkeye's own, his tongue a welcome heat in Hawkeye's mouth. The terrycloth sleeves of Trapper's robe tickle where they brush Hawkeye's neck as Trapper takes Hawkeye's face in both hands and kisses him, and kisses him, and kisses him.

Eventually, through the haze of kissing Trapper, Hawkeye realizes that he is lying down, Trapper's bulk pinning him to the cot. Their pants and shirts are gone but the robes remain, cocooning them in warmth and softness as Trapper ruts against Hawkeye, hard cock smearing precome along Hawkeye's stomach.

"I've always wanted this," Trapper says. "I'm glad I didn't leave before I got to have it."

"Me too," Hawkeye says, shuddering and arching up against him. Damn the rest of the camp; Hawkeye will stay in Korea forever if it means staying here with Trapper.

Trapper kisses him again, and it's the most beautiful thing Hawkeye has ever felt. Kissing doesn't do this, doesn't send sparks through his entire body and make him lose his sense of time and place. But kissing Trapper does.

"I'm going to fuck you like you've always wanted me to," Trapper says, a low growl, and then he is. He slides in easily and Hawkeye's body opens for him like he was always meant to be there, like Hawkeye was made for this and this alone.

Hawkeye is crying. Each thrust of Trapper within him is so perfect it nearly hurts, and he has never been happier, but he can't stop crying.

Trapper shushes him, slowing his hips to a shallow grind over Hawkeye's prostate. "Hey, Hawk, it's okay. I'm not going anywhere. We've got all the time in the world."

"I know," Hawkeye says. "I just... I love you."

Trapper's smile is like the sun.

"Me too, Hawk. Always."

He wipes away Hawkeye's tears with gentle hands and fucks him carefully, lovingly, like he'll never tire and they'll never have to stop. And they never will, Hawkeye realizes. They have forever together.

"God, I love you, Trap," he says, straining upwards for a kiss. "I'll love you for... for..."

Trapper presses kisses to his lips, his forehead, his nose, and, finally, his cheek. "Hawk."

"Yeah, Trap?"

Hawkeye wakes with a start and tears on his face. It's dark, near dawn, and his blanket is tangled around his legs. His cock is half-hard and there is a damp patch on his boxers, and his mouth tastes like death.

Right. The drinking.

Frank's whistling snores, the constant backdrop of nights in Korea, filter through to his tired brain. All a dream. No one got their orders. Except -

He turns to his right. There, in the darkness, is the mysterious Hunnicutt. B.J., whatever that stands for. Not Trapper. Never Trapper again.

The dream is fading. Hawkeye clings to it as best he can, fragments of images and sensations, but soon it, too, will be gone. All he will have - all he has - of Trapper is a kiss on the cheek from Radar and the imagined memory of a love confession that he never got to hear.

B.J. mumbles in his sleep.

"Love you too, Peg."

Hawkeye turns his back on him, curls into a ball, and does not cry.

Notes:

I'm on tumblr as arokel!