stupid flighty bullshit

"Hey," he says, a moment too late. His voice is a little rougher than he'd have liked and, if he's noticing it, Blanc certainly will too. He clears his throat, trying to play it off. "Uh, hey, Blanc, it's Jud."

Stupid. He's calling Blanc's cellphone, he'll know who the message is from before he even presses play.

"Just calling to check in. Say hi…No one died, I promise, don't worry!" He tries to laugh. It falls a little flat, even to his own ears. "Happy Mardi Gras," he says, a little awkwardly, and he wants to kick himself. "Uh…Well, take care of yourself. Bye," he finishes.

He ends the call and drops the phone on his desk as if it burned him.

Happy Mardi Gras? Real smooth, Jud.

But the thing is, he doesn't know what he'd been expecting. It isn't like he'd actually planned what he was going to say. He just…he wanted to hear Blanc's voice. To maybe see if he had time to talk over dinner—well, Jud's dinner. There's no way Blanc hasn't already eaten. But he'd been hoping for a sort of last supper, so to speak. Blanc could have told him about the case he'd wrapped up last week, or…anything, really.

He supposes that he thought Blanc would answer. Then again, when he'd made a fool of himself a few weeks ago, he'd thought for a split second that Blanc was going to say it back. But he didn't.

Maybe it's for the best in both cases. Maybe Blanc is going to make this easy for him.

Jud picks up the stack of freshly printed mass booklets for his Ash Wednesday services tomorrow, and runs his thumb absently along the edge. The paper is still warm.

Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.

Dust. He can do dust. Dust doesn't call Benoit Blanc at nine o'clock at night just to hear him say its name.

He spends the last night before Lent alone in the rectory, reading a book—not a mystery—and eating leftovers. The casserole Louise had left for him on Sunday, and the last of the Valentine's Day clearance candy he'd swiped at the grocery store before it had all sold out. The wrappers pile up around him as he flips the pages, and he tries to enjoy it.

He tries not to think about the way Blanc had looked at him for that split second before acting like he hadn't heard Jud ruin everything.

The First Week of Lent

When he wakes up early on Ash Wednesday before his alarm goes off, it's still dark out. The sun won't start rising until his first service of the day has already begun, when it will shine in through the windows, washing the congregants with its light while he speaks. It will be so beautiful that the idea of Benoit Blanc won't even cross his mind.

That's the plan, anyway.

Never mind how fresh and vivid the memory still is of the first day they'd met, almost two years ago, now. When the sun had cast Blanc in an otherworldly glow through those very windows, casting his shadow over the space where the crucifix used to hang and looking every bit the angel come to save Jud's life. Where he'd found Jud prostrated on his knees, begging God for help, and then offering it, as if it really were that simple.

Jud shakes his head. It shouldn't be that hard—giving up temptation for Lent. Never mind that the point of the exercise is that it is. That it's a sacrifice. That Jesus spent forty days in the wilderness being offered power and glory and a way out of the looming shadow of the cross. Out of His inevitable death and suffering. And he said no.

So…here he is, on the morning of Ash Wednesday, already planning forty days without Blanc, like he can starve the desire out of himself if he just tries hard enough. Blanc might not be sugar, or coffee, or any of the usual suspects people abjure for the next forty days, but temptation, he is. The strongest Jud has ever felt.

So: No calling. No texting. Nothing beyond the strictly professional.

He can do that.

After all, dust to dust, he reminds himself. It's the spirit of the season.

─ ✶ ─

After the first few days, Jud realizes that it's surprisingly easy to avoid someone when you're both busy.

Blanc is in Prague. He'd texted Jud the morning after Jud had left that horrifically embarrassing voicemail, apologizing for missing his call, and telling him he'd been in the air en route to Nové Město. He'd been called in on a case which he was under strict orders not to discuss with anyone, but that it was with 'your lot'.

It wouldn't have been difficult to figure it out from there, even if Jud hadn't received a forwarded email from Bishop Langstrom a few hours later informing him that 'that detective of yours' had been called in to solve a murder at the Apostolic Nunciature. So much for confidentiality. And Blanc isn't his. Jud is more aware of that now than ever before.

He tries not to think about it. He keeps himself buried in work for the Lenten season—daily confession instead of twice weekly, reconciliation services, extra weekday masses, organizing the food drive, Stations of the Cross on Fridays for the rest of the season… All things considered, he could offload things like the nuts and bolts of the food drive—he'd finally hired someone in the fall to replace Martha, so he actually had help this year. Lydia is a force of nature who's been scolding him for not delegating more to her, and he knows he should really give her the reins but… It's easier to just get caught up in it all. To keep himself…not distracted, but busy. Busy with what he should be focused on always. Blanc is the distraction.

But when he's sitting alone at the table in the rectory on Friday night eating the last of Louise's casserole, he can't stop thinking about him and, well... Professional communication only, right?

He pulls out his phone and opens his email.

Blanc,

He pauses and thinks for a moment about what he could say. It can't be that he's reaching out on his own behalf…The empty message box stares at him reproachfully, as if it knows what he's doing.

If you are the Son of God, command these stones to become loaves of bread.

The line from Sunday's upcoming Gospel sneaks into his thoughts and stares him down. Jesus, hungry and alone, being offered an easy way out. Fill your belly now. You don't have to suffer. You don't have to wait. Jud tells himself that this isn't the same. Reminds himself that, technically, he is still within the bounds of his rules. He types:

Bishop Langstrom told me about what happened in the Nunciature. If there's anything I can do to help, let me know.

— Father Jud

He presses send before he can second guess himself, and then rereads the message. Short and professional. Borderline cold, even—if it wasn't so pathetic, that is. Jud winces. Blanc probably has access to every Cardinal in Europe right now. What could he possibly need Jud for?

Blanc's response comes several hours later while Jud is asleep, confirming it. He nearly drops his phone in his haste to check his inbox when he wakes up on Saturday morning, and his shoulders slump when he reads it, trying not to feel disappointed.

Much obliged, Father. Already sorted and off to enjoy the city. Hoping your Lent is meaningful. —B

Meaningful. Right.

So meaningful that it's barely four days in and he's already looking for loopholes. Jud reads the email five times before he forces himself to delete the thread.

He thinks about the second temptation:

If you are the Son of God, throw yourself down.

Test God. See if he'll catch you. See if he loves you enough to save you.

He's been avoiding really facing it until now, but Jud has been testing God for almost a year. Maybe not explicitly, but in small, quiet ways. Without even thinking about it. If this is wrong, take it away. If Blanc is something I can't have, make him stop calling. Make him stop coming back.

But God doesn't seem to be answering. Or, more likely, He is. Because that isn't how it works, and the answer is what Jud always knew that it would be. That Jud doesn't get to take the easy way out. If he's going to put God first—if he's going to let Blanc go—he has to do the hard part himself.

The third temptation echoes as he walks away from it:

All these I will give you, if you fall down and worship me.

The kingdoms of the world, offered in exchange for a single act of devotion. To an outside observer, Jud's temptation is a pittance in comparison, but the weight of his desire for the kingdom of Blanc's attention is crushing. For good measure, he pulls up his messages app and sets their entire text thread to Do Not Disturb as well.

It doesn't help. He barely lasts a couple of hours before he has to leave his phone in a drawer on the other side of the rectory just to stop himself from checking it.

─ ✶ ─

On Sunday morning in the sacristy, he rereads his homily in preparation. It tells the story that's been monopolizing his thoughts since Wednesday. He'd written it weeks ago, though, before the disaster of Blanc's last visit had twisted up in his chest and gone sour. As he reads it, his heart sinks like a stone. It covers Jesus' forty days in the wilderness resisting temptation, yes. But then he'd gone on to talk about ego and the way that the focus on willpower during this season—on making Lent solely about individual vices and personal failings—is putting a focus on the wrong things. That there's nothing wrong with spiritual discipline, that it can be admirable, even. But that we shouldn't lose focus on what God is really asking of us, during Lent, or at any other time:

That Jesus' rejections of temptation are not about willpower or personal triumph over the devil. He doesn't reject the devil's offerings because they are temptations, but because they are not what will serve or represent his mission as the Messiah. His mission to love humanity.

Jud stares at his own words and they feel like an accusation. One that raises a dangerous question that he isn't ready to consider.

He skims through the rest. He goes back to preparing for Mass. He pulls on his purple vestments and reminds himself: One does not live on bread alone, but on every word that comes forth from the mouth of God.

God, not Benoit Blanc.

─ ✶ ─

Sunday, February 14th — 5:42 pm

Blanc: [a carousel of photographs showing a pastry outside an idyllic cafe, a stray cat, a shot of an enormous cathedral looking breathtaking at sunset, and a large gilded reliquary]

This gaudy reliquary contains what is allegedly the shoulder blade of Saint Valentine. I'm told the skull is in Rome—I can only assume the rest of him is scattered across the continent like a very holy jigsaw puzzle.

Sunday, February 14th — 5:45 pm

Blanc: Thought you'd get a kick out of it.

─ ✶ ─

Tuesday, February 17th — 9:56pm

Blanc: Back stateside. Don't you go having too much fun with all that self-denial, now.

The Second Week of Lent

The thing about giving something up for lent is, unfortunately, that you can't just push it away and pretend to ignore it. You're supposed to think about it—about your choices. You're supposed to actually reckon with them, not just wait for Easter so you can go back to whatever you were doing before without a second thought.

And what were they doing before?

Jud isn't sure, and that's part of the problem. Blanc isn't Jud's boyfriend. That isn't something Jud can have whether he wants it or not. So they aren't…together. But they are something.

Blanc comes and goes as he pleases. Now that everything with Cy is behind them (formally, at least), now that there's no meetings with lawyers to contend with, there's no schedule. Blanc works his cases and he lives his life full of interesting people and places Jud could never let himself dream of. And, when he has the spare time, he comes up to Chimney Rock. He's always warm and easy to talk to, just like before, but sometimes there's a distance there that Jud can't seem to bridge. Like he's holding himself back and keeping Jud at arm's length, even while pulling him in.

Jud builds his flock. He serves his community—fulfills his purpose. They text and call pretty regularly, but if someone were to read their texts or listen in on their phone calls, they certainly wouldn't have the full picture. Jud is pretty sure Blanc makes a point of it, sometimes to the point where even Jud isn't entirely sure of where he stands. Where he starts thinking that whatever this nebulous thing they do when there's nothing between them but sweat is already over, and that Jud just missed the memo.

But then Blanc will turn up at the rectory—sometimes with a warning, a text to let Jud know he has a bit of downtime and would Jud, by any chance, like to get lunch? Other times, he takes Jud by surprise. Like when, for whatever reason, he doesn't want to go home after a case and drives straight to Chimney Rock from JFK, or when there's been no cases at all for too long and he's climbing the walls, desperate for something. And sometimes they really do just get lunch.

Other times, though, Blanc stays. He always pays for a hotel room just outside of town to keep up appearances—sometimes they even use it, Jud's heart pounding all the way through the lobby until they get to the room, afraid someone will see him. But no matter where they end up, the times Blanc stays always end the same way:

Eventually, they find themselves alone and, without talking about it, Blanc is kissing him or he's kissing Blanc and it's like they need it to breathe. Jud melts into it, desperate to get their clothes off, to get on his knees, to touch and be touched. To take whatever Blanc is willing to give him. When they're alone like this, it's like nothing else exists but the two of them. Blanc looks at Jud with a quiet devotion that Jud recognizes, but can't bring himself to name. Jud lets go of his fear and his uncertainties and its like he can't even remember why they can't just have this.

But then Blanc goes back to his life and Jud goes back to his church. He remembers why. And he feels guilty.

And then he fucked everything up.

Blanc has been acting like everything is normal. As if nothing has changed and like Jud didn't ruin everything by saying what did. But Jud had seen the stricken look on his face when the words slipped out before Blanc buried it in Jud's neck and kept fucking him without saying it back. He didn't even mean to say it. But what's worse is that, as soon as the words came out of his mouth, Jud was suddenly made devastatingly aware of how much he meant it.

For this is the message you have heard from the beginning, that we should love one another.

Jud supposes that he's just the fool who's taken that particular edict too far.

─ ✶ ─

Saturday, February 20th — 8:07pm

Blanc: I know it's a busy time of year, so I'll try not to take offense to your rather uncharacteristically taciturn shift. Don't let that church run you too ragged, Father.

─ ✶ ─

Jud's fast is going better this week, by all qualitative measures. He hasn't given in or come up with any loopholes. Putting their texts on Do Not Disturb proved generally unhelpful—he's still instinctively checking for Blanc's messages. But he hasn't responded. He's keeping that door firmly shut and swallowing down the guilt. Blanc will understand if Jud is busy, he said so himself. So he keeps himself busy: praying, and devoting his time to his flock, and doing everything he's supposed to be doing.

"You who fear the Lord, praise him," he preaches on Sunday. "For he did not despise or abhor the affliction of the afflicted; he did not hide his face from me but heard when I cried to him."

He is giving Blanc up for Lent.

But it isn't making him feel closer to God. It just feels a little bit like dying.

Third Week Of Lent

Will you give me a drink?

The story from this weekend's upcoming Gospel has lodged itself into his thoughts. The Samaritan woman—living in sin with a man who is not her husband, and isolated from her community—walking all the way to the well at the hottest part of the day to avoid their judgment. And Jesus, already there and weary from his journey, bucking every social norm and custom, speaks to her. He asks her for something simple: a drink of water. And he offers her everything in return.

If you knew the gift of God and who it is that asks you for a drink, you would have asked him and he would have given you living water.

Jud has been ruminating on it all week. Thinking about how she came to the well for water and left with something else entirely. Jesus saw her, he knew all of her sins, and he welcomed her—offered her salvation so that she may never thirst again. He sees himself in the Samaritan woman. He remembers being just like her in this very moment when he found Christ himself over a decade ago, and the revelation that it felt like. And then he remembers how it felt two years ago when Blanc saw him and his guilty conscience and immediately saw through it to his innocence. How Blanc lifted him out of suspicion, saved his life, and then stayed to be a part of it.

He's afraid that he isn't quite sure what he's thirsting for anymore.

─ ✶ ─

He feels guilty about it, of course, but when he gets a text from Blanc about a case with a connection to one of his parishioners—Not a suspect, Father, don't you worry, but could I give you a call?—he can't pretend he isn't thrilled.

The small, sensible part of his brain scolds him for it. He should be more worried for Charlotte than excited to speak to Blanc, and he is worried! He'll check on her as soon as he and Blanc hang up, he'll make sure she has everything she needs. The nagging voice in the back of his mind counters that the most Blanc could possibly need from him is an introduction, which could be done via text, and it would be more in the spirit of his fast to ask for more information first.

But he's practically bouncing on his toes as he replies Yes, of course! Whatever you need! And when, a moment later, his phone starts buzzing and Blanc's name appears on his screen, his stomach does a giddy little flip and he doesn't hesitate to accept the call.

When he picks up and Blanc says hello, Jud is beaming. Blanc's voice is crackling a little and he apologizes for the poor reception, but Jud couldn't possibly care less. They talk for exactly seventeen minutes about the case and Jud's instinct had been right: mostly, Blanc just wants to be connected to Charlotte, which could have been easily handled via a text, or even an email. A missing person—a childhood friend of hers who she hasn't talked to since she was a teenager, apparently but who, right before she'd gone missing, had been reading notes they'd passed back and forth in class all that time ago. But when Blanc runs out of things to say about the case, he trails off.

"Father Jud?" Blanc eventually asks when Jud doesn't say anything either, too lost in that lilting drawl he'd been missing.

"Yeah," he says apologetically. "Sorry, still here. Is there anything else I can help with?"

Blanc pauses. Jud can practically hear him thinking. He sighs. The sound is worried and Jud swallows nervously, his heart rate increasing.

"How are you?" is what Blanc settles on. "Truly."

Sir, you have nothing to draw with and the well is deep.

Jud grips his phone tighter as he bites his lip, chewing on the chapped skin there while he tries to figure out how to answer that. It was stupid for him to have not realized this would be coming—it's not as if Blanc had ever called, even for something case-related, and not at least asked Jud how he was. He'd just been so excited to talk to Blanc that he hadn't thought it through. But what can he even say? He can't exactly answer the question—not truly.

"Oh. I'm fine," he manages, trying not to sound like he'd swallowed a lemon whole. "Just busy, is all. Lent, and everything." Not technically a lie. "You know…"

"Yes," Blanc agrees slowly. "I'm familiar with the concept." He's speaking softly, and there's a hint of amusement there. Jud winces. "Don't go in for it myself, o'course."

Jud huffs out a little laugh. "No."

He should hang up. He should just say, Well, let me know if you need anything else for Charlotte, and hang up like a normal person. But the silence is dragging on for too long. Blanc's audible concern, and the tension, and everything they haven't been saying to each other since the last time Blanc's car pulled out of the rectory's driveway are hanging over him like the Sword of Damocles. He just can't help himself from reaching up to sever the rope himself…

"Do you ever think about—"

And he stops himself. All but slaps a hand over his mouth like a cartoon character. What the hell was he thinking?

"…About?" Blanc prompts.

About what it would have been like if…if we'd met some other way. If I hadn't been a priest. About what it would be like if we could actually have this… About that night in the rectory… Would you have said it back?

"Nothing. Sorry. Just a long day."

A long month.

Blanc is quiet for a long moment. When he finally speaks, his voice is careful and measured, full of that same, infuriating distance that's been chewing Jud up inside for months. "Of course." There's another short stretch of silence before he finally says: "You know where to find me, Father."

Always Father. Never Jud, not when he pulls back like that.

"Yeah," he nods. "I know." Neither of them says anything. He imagines Blanc nodding, a resigned frown settling into his wrinkles. Jud swallows the gut wrenching longing to smooth them out himself. "I'll put you in touch with Charlotte."

"Oh, yes… Thank you kindly. You take care of yourself, alright, Padre?"

"Yeah… Thanks Blanc. You too."

He hangs up, feeling like a bucket of ice water has been dumped over his head. Mechanically, he pulls up Charlotte's contact on his phone and presses the call button.

─ ✶ ─

Sunday, February 28th — 11:11am

Blanc: Jud—I don't want to overstep, I know Lent is a busy time for you, and if that's all it is, then I hope you can forgive an old man for worrying. If you need space, I understand, truly. But if there's anything I can do, I'm here, whatever it may be. You just let me know.

Fourth Week of Lent

Jud hears about the resolution of the case from Charlotte, not Blanc. He doesn't hear anything else from Blanc, actually, and he tries not to think about it or about the fact that he should be relieved about that fact, and isn't. She excitedly tells him all about it while volunteering for the food drive, and he tells her how glad he is. It's true. It had been the best possible outcome and he's so relieved: Blanc had found her friend, and she was still alive—the case solved before a death could even occur, and she and Charlotte have re-connected for the first time in decades.

Jud wonders how often that's happened for Blanc. Not often, he suspects. Blanc is usually called in once the body has already been found. He wants to congratulate him. Ask him how it feels to have saved the victim's life, not just to have discovered the party guilty of extinguishing it after the fact.

He doesn't.

He wonders if Blanc will be as happy to hear from him as Charlotte was to hear from her old friend when all this is over. If they'll ever be able to simply be old friends without all the complications. The idea of it fills him with a melancholy sort of ache.

─ ✶ ─

In the end, Jud lasts twenty five days—twenty two, if he counts his ridiculous 'professional' email that first week as his first failure. He's been keeping track both ways, depending on how much grace he feels capable of extending to himself at any given moment. Right now, lying on the couch and staring at the rectory ceiling at nearly midnight on Saturday night, he's not feeling particularly charitable.

That text is open on his phone, and the screen glows bright in the dark, stinging his eyes. It has been six days since Blanc sent it, with nothing else from him since. Six days of nothing—the longest gap in hearing from Blanc in well over a year.

He reads the text again. He doesn't need to; he's memorized it by now.

Blanc has probably assumed that he wants space and is respecting that like the mature adult that he is. Jud tries to tell himself that it's for the best. It's what he needs. It's what he'd been aiming for at the start of all of this, after all—to get his head back on straight and figure out what it is that he wants. To focus on the Church and his flock instead of trying to guess at what Blanc even wants from him.

Hungry and thirsty, their souls fainted within them.

He'll be reading that Psalm during tomorrow's service and, already, they feel like an accusation. He's been wandering for weeks now, and he's still hungry. Still thirsty. Still alone in this desert of his own making, and what good is it doing him, or his flock, or God?

Lent is supposed to be about prayer, fasting, and almsgiving; not just abstaining from temptation. It's about a renewed focus on your ongoing conversion of heart to follow Christ's will more faithfully; to rejoice in your suffering, finding the parts of yourself that are less than Christ-like, and letting them die so you can be reborn anew alongside Him.

And Jud has been praying more than ever. He's been fasting and he's been doing everything he can to help the people in his community. He's dedicating almost every waking moment to the Church and to the food drive and to making himself available to anyone who needs his help. But he isn't rejoicing and, if anything, this particular fast has made him feel less Christ-like than he ever has before since taking his orders. It's made him feel like a coward. And, lately, it feels like his prayers are going to someone who isn't listening anymore.

Maybe God gave him up for Lent. He feels guilty for the thought as soon as it occurs to him, crosses himself, and whispers an apology.

He still can't help but feel like it's falling on deaf ears, and he's distinctly aware of the irony.

He looks down at the screen again, and the text stares back at him.

You just let me know.

His thumb moves before he can think about it. He presses the call button.

The phone rings. Once. Twice.

He should hang up.

Three times. Four.

It's late. Blanc probably isn't even awake.

Five.

The gap between rings seems to stretch out and, for a moment, Jud's heart jumps into his throat. His shoulders slump with relief as he starts to think that maybe—

Six.

"This is Benoit Blanc. I'm not available to take your call right now, but leave a message and I'll return it at my earliest convenience."

The phone beeps.

Jud's mouth opens. Closes.

I'm sorry, he wants to say. I miss you. I ruined everything. I've been trying to—to be good and let everything I have here be enough, but it's not working. I think about you all the time. I don't know what I'm doing anymore, and I…

He hangs up. He puts the phone face-down on the coffee table and buries his face in his palms. What the hell did he just do?

He doesn't bother to plug his phone in. He just leaves it there and goes upstairs.

─ ✶ ─

The call comes the following evening, just as the last light is fading through the kitchen windows. His phone starts buzzing on the kitchen counter and he sees Blanc's name on the screen. Instinctively, he sets the knife he's using down on the cutting board and his hand twitches toward it before hesitating.

Laetare Sunday. The one break in the middle of all this penance. Rejoice.

He could answer. Of all days, it's this one day where he could take Blanc's call, and it technically wouldn't even be breaking his fast. But his hand flinches back and falls to the cutting board. He doesn't know what he'd even say.

Lie.

He knows exactly what he'd say, he corrects himself, and that's the problem. He'd wanted to say it all so badly and, really, it was only the thought of saying it into Blanc's voicemail instead of to the man himself that had stopped him. It was for the best that Blanc hadn't answered. He's afraid of how much more he might say if he can hear Blanc's voice on the other end of the line. Things he wouldn't be able to take back. He's done enough of that already. So he lets it ring.

When the phone falls silent and the voicemail notification pops up, he tells himself he doesn't have to listen to it. But he's kidding himself, and he knows it. He picks up the phone, taps on Blanc's voicemail, and presses the phone to his ear.

"Sorry to have missed your call, Father Jud. I was somewhat outta signal." Blanc's apologetic chuckle tumbles out of Jud's speaker directly into his ear and he clutches the phone tighter. "A puzzle involving a Lithuanian heiress, her sugar glider, an' a hairdresser. It's all wrapped up though and… And I was real glad to see you called, Jud," he says, that cheery mask dropping just a little. He sounds relieved. "I'll be back in New York in a couple'a days…if ya got the time."

The phone goes silent. Jud's stomach twists itself up in knots of guilt.

It's only two more weeks. Blanc will forgive him.

"You're over here, Father," he called, gesturing to the cot that was beside his own, and Francis tried to school his face to impassive neutrality, hoping to avoid the flush that wanted to spread across his cheeks. "We drew straws for who'd get stuck snuggling up to who for body heat. And you," Hawkeye teased, "not being here to defend yourself, drew the short one by default." He was grinning crookedly at him in that way that always made Francis' face flush all the way up to his ears. Thank goodness for the frigid wind he'd just come in from that was surely offering him some amount of plausible deniability.

"Ahh, I see," he hummed, swallowing nervously but still trying to maintain his poker face. "Should I be concerned?" He mustered up a wan smile, and when Hawkeye's face lit up with delight, Francis busied himself with removing his spectacles to clean them of smudges that weren't there. Anything to avoid becoming distracted by Hawkeye's eyes or the things about the situation that really did worry him. "Do you snore, perhaps?"

"Snore? Me, snore? I'm appalled at this spurious and unfounded accusation, I—"

"Worse, unfortunately, Father," BJ piped up with a smirk. "He's a blanket thief."

"More slander!" Hawkeye insisted, beginning to sound like Dr. Winchester, and laughing when BJ insisted that it was true. "But don't you worry, Father," he finally moved on, turning back to Francis with a salacious wink, "I promise I'll leave your virtue intact."

Francis' chest filled with a nervous warmth as Hawkeye laughed raucously at his own joke.

"Oh come on now, Pierce, leave the Padre alone, would'ya?" Potter grumbled. The rest of the tent was filled with a variety of simultaneous replies, some similar to the Colonel's distaste for Hawkeye making Francis the butt of that kind of joke, and some laughing along good-naturedly.

"Oh, it's quite alright, Colonel," Francis offered in placation, giving a small, awkward chuckle in return. "I'm sure Captain Pierce's intentions are nothing but noble," he continued with a raised eyebrow and pointedly beatific smile. When Hawkeye's face lit up with that look of astonished delight he always had when Francis surprised him by playing along with his bits, he bit back a small pleased smile of his own, ducking his head and willing the giddy twisting in his stomach to come to heel.

He'd been afraid of this, if he was honest with himself. Afraid that Hawkeye might read his mind in the way he always seemed to be able to, and do exactly what Francis had secretly been hoping he would under the guise of the freezing cold weather. And, despite the fear of his own desire which created the hope, an exhilarated buzzing rose up in him at the sight of how one edge of the empty cot he'd been assigned fit so snugly along the edge of Hawkeye's. How had he let it get so far, this dancing around each other that he and Hawkeye had been doing for… dear God, when did it even start? Had he even tried to stop it?

There weren't enough steps between the door and the two cots in Hawkeye's corner. Despite having to climb over several of the other bodies that were already tucked into their own, in what felt like the blink of an eye, Francis found himself looking down at the empty cot and realizing it was right in front of him.

"Come on and stay awhile, Father, I don't bite," Hawkeye teased, and this time Francis didn't manage to hide the flush on his cheeks if the charmed twinkle in Hawkeye's eye was anything to go by. Thankfully, Francis' arrival had ceased to be the most exciting thing in the room to the rest of the temporary Swamp denizens, who had gone back to their idle chatter and assorted activities amongst themselves. He'd just count his blessings that none of them had seemed to notice.

"Hello, Hawkeye," he said quietly, trying to give him a neutral smile that didn't give away how nervous this whole situation made him. He had a feeling he wasn't hiding it well, because Hawkeye's own expression dimmed ever so slightly for a fraction of a second, before giving him one more wink and rolling over to needle BJ, who's cot was its usual few feet away from Hawkeye's on his other side, and appeared to be writing a letter to his wife.

Francis took it for what it was, a temporary but kind ceasefire of Hawkeye's unrepentant flirtations, and of their… whatever it was they were doing. He always felt so terrible when Hawkeye noticed his discomfort and pulled away. He hated seeing Hawkeye's joy fall into concern, seeing their easy rapport break off into a stilted retreat when Francis' guilt and fear came into play. Hawkeye must know that the potential of an audience had ratcheted up the anxiety. He always seemed to be able to tell, and Francis hated seeing him trying to contain himself, make himself smaller on behalf of Francis' fear. He'd never understand why Hawkeye was so patient with him.

He was grateful for it all the same.

Hesitantly, he placed his rucksack on the floor, and rested his panama hat carefully on top.

He cast one last sidelong look towards Hawkeye and was relieved to see he was still busying himself with reading BJ's letter to Peg over his shoulder and making commentary. He did his best to ignore the fluttering in his chest but allowed himself a small, private smile at the sight, before busying himself with making his cot.

Francis noticed with a pleasant warmth spreading through him that Hawkeye had already spread two of the thicker ratty spare blankets across both their cots for insulation. He couldn't stop himself from thrilling slightly at the fact that Hawkeye had used the same blankets for both of them, covering where the metal frames met and making it look like one large cot. He was sure it had just been due to the camp being low on extra blankets but even so. He knew that Hawkeye, the incorrigible flirt that he was, would be only more than happy to use that excuse. He took a breath to ensure none of the nervous energy building up inside him like steam inside a kettle was boiling over where others could see it, and perfunctorily unfolded the blankets he had brought over from his own tent. He made quick work of laying down his thin, army issue pillow and spreading the blankets over their temporary cot.

One look at the Colonel, already using his cap as a shade to keep out the light, confirmed his suspicion that there was no need to bother with military corners.

"Does anyone mind if I say a prayer?" he asked, superfluous as the question was. No one had ever asked him not to—it was what he was here for, after all, but he felt it only good manners to ask.

When all he received in response were a few noncommittal waves and a few sounds of acknowledgment, he nodded and sank down to kneel in the small space beside the foot of the cot.

Pressing his hands together and lowering his head, he closed his eyes and began to pray.

"Our heavenly father," he said, breathing in a calming, meditative breath. "As we lay our heads to rest, we offer Thee our sleep in thanks for seeing us through this day. We ask Thy divine help to keep us from sin and hold us at Thy side as we rise again tomorrow. Amen."

"Oh no, I don't offer him my sleep, Father," Hawkeye said as soon as he finished speaking. At least he had had the decency to let him finish, this time. Just before Francis could let loose a small chuckle however, he looked up and was arrested to his spot on the floor by the look on Hawkeye's face. He'd rolled back over to face Francis and, well… The proximity was significant.

"I need that, he can't have it," Hawkeye continued, still looking down at him from his perch on the cot with a lascivious smirk. He was leaning back on his hands and looking down at Francis with a hunger that held such weight that Francis could practically feel it bearing down on him, keeping him pinned in place by a sharp, wolfish maw. Something told him Hawkeye was no longer talking about sleep.

The left corner of Hawkeye's mouth ticked up slightly, clearly pleased to have made an impact on him, and Francis looked down, taking off his spectacles for another round of entirely ineffectual and unnecessary attempts at cleaning them.

"Well, Hawkeye," he said, thankfully recovering his speech without too much of a delay, and forced a hearty chuckle to save face. "Perhaps you ought to have raised your objection before I said, Amen," Francis offered in rebuttal, looking up at him with a wan smile. "Before I closed the line, and all that."

"Better luck next time, Hawk," BJ chimed in with a laugh from behind him and, like a flash, Hawkeye's smile returned to its usual neutrally charming state. As he turned to grin at his best friend, there was no hint of how he had been eyeing Francis at all. As if Francis had been imagining it for the entire charged moment.

Francis shakily lifted himself to his feet and walked back to his rucksack to remove his spectacles one final time, this time to tuck them safely under his hat.

"Well," he said as he climbed into the cot, tucking himself under the layers of blankets. He hoped his voice wasn't coming out too heartily. "Good night all, and pleasant dreams!"

"Yes, good idea, Padre," came the colonel's slightly muffled but miffed voice. "Now can somebody turn that dang light off?"

"Not in the mood to paint each other's nails, Colonel?" replied Hawkeye, glib as always, and with BJ piping up not far behind.

"You don't want to stay up and talk about the nurses all night?"

"Shut it, the pair of you," Potter griped. "Some of us would like to sleep well enough to wake up in time for reveille, and if you keep me up much longer, I'll be dragging you both with me no matter how late you stay up gossiping like schoolgirls."

Francis bit back an amused smile as Hawkeye held his hands up in surrender, and heard a chuckle from their company clerk as well.

"That goes for you too, Radar!"

"But I'll be up for reveille anyway, and before any of the rest of you, so's I can wake you up!" Radar cried defensively and then, after a chastened moment as he realized what he'd said and how he'd said it, "...Sir."

"It's alright, Radar," Potter grumbled. "Just turn the damn light off and everybody go to sleep! You're all worse than Mildred."

"Yes sir," Radar mumbled, dragging himself out from under his blankets to tug the chain that doused the lights.

"Goodnight, Colonel," Hawkeye teased, sugary sweet into the darkness.

"Sleep!" the colonel commanded once more, and then the tent fell quiet aside from the creak of metal on metal as Hawkeye climbed back into his own cot and the other bodies around them shifted in their own. He'd clearly decided on quitting while he was ahead for once despite not having gotten in the last word.

Francis' breath caught in his throat as he was once again reminded of how close their cots were. The shifting of Hawkeye's cot caused his own to rock slightly in tandem with it. The tense set of his shoulders turned into a shiver when Hawkeye's socked foot brushed, almost certainly with precise intention, along Francis' calf. The soft huff of silent laughter behind him confirmed the suspicion but, for now at least, Hawkeye seemed content to let that be it and drew his foot back to his own cot. Francis could still feel Hawkeye behind him—there was no avoiding brushing against one another when your cots were so close together. Add to that being wrapped in the same shared thick blankets to keep warm? Francis' heart was hammering against his rib cage so forcefully, he was surprised the entire tent couldn't hear it.

Perhaps God had listened to his prayers to keep him from sin by stopping Hawkeye from instigating further... But how was the constant sense of Hawkeye beside him—shoulders brushing incidentally, but nothing more—even more distracting, more tempting, than he could ever imagine an intentional embrace being?

How was he supposed to fall asleep now?

He had no idea how long he laid there, lying frozen on his back like a strip of petrified wood, hyper aware of Hawkeye's every shift, every movement in his cot. He wondered if the man knew exactly what he was doing to Francis. Somewhere in his brain he was vaguely aware of the breaths of their tent mates evening out, one by one, a few beginning to snore at various volumes. And when the only two remaining still awake were he and Hawkeye, a hand reached out and Francis started as it tenderly—and so quickly it almost hadn't been there at all—brushed back the hair falling across his forehead.

"Goodnight, Father," Hawkeye murmured under his breath, his voice hushed and filled with an even mix of gentleness and flirtation.

Francis remained frozen for a moment, but as soon as he felt he had gained enough control of his volume to say it quietly enough, responded,

"Goodnight. Hawkeye…" he whispered, continuing to stare straight up at the canvas ceiling.

It wasn't much longer before Hawkeye's breathing slowed as well, leaving Francis the one remaining outlier. Feeling more awake than he'd felt all night. Another prayer, perhaps; a silent one this time.

'Father…' he thought, but the words wouldn't come. Surely God could feel the desire to sin inside him... Had He not done enough for Francis already? If he wasn't so full of sin, perhaps he could bring himself to speak to God without the safety of an audience to perform for again. If he could, would God even want to hear what Francis had to say?

He took a breath. Rote memory was better than nothing.

'Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee; blessed art thou among women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death. Amen. Behold the handmaid of the Lord: Be it done unto me according to Thy word.'

He recited the Hail Mary silently in his head, over and over again, as if he had come to himself in the confessional, and this was his assigned penance. He repeated it until his eyelids felt heavy, sinking into the black.

'Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death.

***

When Francis came to, he had a moment of disorientation. It was still dark, clearly not morning yet as there was no sunlight peeking in through the canvas, and there was a heavy weight around him, enveloping him. And he was warm. Something hard and distinctly uncomfortable was digging into his thigh as well and, in trying to identify the cause, he realized it was the metal frames of their cots.

Francis must have rolled onto his side at some point and Hawkeye, in his sleep, had pulled him closer. Their cots had been so close together that he clearly hadn't had any trouble pulling Francis over the edge so that he was now occupying Hawkeye's cot. Now he lay, with his back pressed in a long firm line against Hawkeye's chest, breaking only where his legs were still jutting over into the cot where he had begun the evening. Tensing up, he had a moment of silent panic while he tried to listen out for any movement or noise in The Swamp, whether anyone was awake to see, and was relieved when the only noise above the slow steady breathing to be heard was that of Colonel Potter's muffled snoring.

He should pull away anyway.

He knew he should, and he considered it, but the traitorous part of him that he usually tried so hard to keep buried was enjoying the comforting warmth emanating from Hawkeye's chest and wrapping around his front. The gentleness of his arm cradling around Francis' chest where his hand had landed softly near his heart. That part of him—and it was a growing part—didn't want to go back to his own cot, especially when he noticed how cold his feet still were as compared to the rest of him that was bundled up so much closer to Hawkeye.

He shifted hesitantly, still listening out for the signs of anyone else in the tent waking up, and tried to allow himself to relax.

As soon as he did, he felt something else and immediately tensed up once more.

Another insistent hardness was pressing against him, but this time it was warm and, most terrifying to Francis, not at all unpleasant. As he had allowed himself to relax back into Hawkeye's embrace, he had felt the man's arousal against his backside and he couldn't help but wonder if God was punishing him for almost giving into temptation, or if this was simply a warning.

It was then that he realized he was hard too.

He really ought to pull away.

"Hawkeye?" he asked, whispering softly as he could, but he knew it wasn't loud enough to wake anyone, not even Hawkeye. There was a battle of three armies fighting inside him at this exact moment, and he wasn't sure which would win.

The first wanted him to pull away, forget this ever happened, and never mention it again. Hawkeye never needed to even know it had happened at all. The second wanted to wake Hawkeye, give him the chance to pull himself together and they could separate more easily. The third, which was gaining ground quickly, wanted him to stay right where he was. To allow this liminal space that these two joined cots on a freezing winter night seemed to have created to give him the illusion of freedom. To allow fallible human nature to take its course.

The first was the emphatically correct choice. It was what he needed to do to keep his vows. It was the right thing to do. It would, as an added bonus, be the least humiliating of the three.

The second was the more noble choice, setting a clear boundary even if, selfishly, it would at least give him one moment of clear, obvious connection with Hawkeye over what they both might want before breaking away.

The third was the empirically wrong choice. He knew that it was. He'd be taking advantage of Hawkeye, who was unconscious and had no control over his nocturnal bodily functions, no matter what unconscious nocturnal functions they may have instigated in Francis.

It was also the option that he was, right now in this exact moment, most desperate for.

"Hawkeye?" he whispered again, slightly louder this time, and froze back into tense silence at the snuffling noise that came in response from several feet behind him.

BJ.

He waited with bated breath for any indication that BJ might have awoken, but all that came was the creaking of a cot as a body shifted upon it and the shuffling of blankets before settling. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Francis could hear the smooth even breathing of sleep throughout the tent once more, and he released a breath of relief.

He really needed to stop this right now, before it could turn into something he might regret.

Francis moved his hand to place it over Hawkeye's, taking one last moment to relax into the hold, breathe in the warm heady scent of Old Spice and sweat, before he tried to gently lift Hawkeye's hand from his chest.

In response to which, Hawkeye seemed to subconsciously tighten his grip. He pulled Francis back impossibly closer, and then rocked forward with an instinctive roll of his hips into Francis' backside, eliciting a sharp gasp from deep in Francis' throat.

He bit back a whimper and made one more perfunctory attempt to lift Hawkeye's arm which, if successful, he told himself that he would promptly roll back into his own cot and bundle up in the blankets alone. Never mind how much colder it would be there than it was right here with Hawkeye… But it was a gesture in futility, and he knew it.

The growing hardness in his trousers was getting more insistent and the feeling of Hawkeye rutting against him, even just the once, had stoked the flames of his desire. He was a hair's breadth from crossing the line of temptation he had been dangerously toeing for months now, and he wasn't sure if he had the strength of will he once thought he did. Then again, back when he'd thought that, he'd never once dreamed that having something like this – something like what had been building between himself and Hawkeye – would have ever even been possible for him.

He remembered with almost dizzy amusement what he'd once said to Radar:

'Well, you develop a lot of muscle wrestling with temptation…'

The corporal didn't know it, and Francis hadn't even been ready to admit it to himself, but he'd been wrestling with a lot more temptation in the last several months over Hawkeye than he had in almost a decade in the priesthood.

The thought left a twinge of guilt twisting inside him. Had he not been faithful enough? Why was he being tested now? Here, of all places, where their mettle was already being tested so much, and by so many horrific events, large and small. Why would God test him with this, of all things, and now, of all times?

He took a shuddering breath, trying to squirm just enough to put even an inch of space between Hawkeye's groin and his backside. His was not to ask why, he reminded himself. What right did he have to question God?

These were the sort of times when he envied Eppy, and the way he talked of his own experiences with God. About his experience of his religion as a lively debate, where all points of an argument were treated with equal weight and considered thoroughly before being either adopted or discarded, sometimes only to be picked up again in the future with new fervor by a bright young scholar.

Hawkeye's body seemed to chase him subconsciously and Francis' breath came out shakier than ever as his unconscious friend began grinding his hips in sensuous circles against his. The fabric of Hawkeye's fatigues was dragging against his own, tugging gently at the seams against his hips in that even, but hurried rhythm. The coarse trousers pulled tight against his groin but it was so far from the relief he needed.

He wondered what Boom Boom Gallagher would think of him now, if he knew what Francis was wrestling with. That he was envious of another for not being beholden to the same vows that Francis had once taken joyfully. That he was brazenly enjoying the grinding of another man against him in a tent full of other sleeping people.

'Lust. Envy. That's two out of seven, Francis,' he thought to himself with a shaky breathless laugh. 'I wonder how many more this war will pull out of you.'

This, at least—his desire to stay right where he was and allow himself something he never thought he'd be able to receive again—wasn't the war, though. This had been in him his whole life, and he'd run to the priesthood to try to escape it. But here he was, all the same. Was there no free will? Had he always been destined to come down this path? He wondered if a stronger man might be able to pull away.

A low, almost inaudible noise escaped out of Hawkeye's mouth from deep in his chest as his hips twitched against Francis' once more. The sound of it vibrated against the shell of Francis' ear. He didn't catch himself soon enough to stop his own hips from twitching backwards in response, nor could he swallow the high whimper eking out from his own throat this time. It came out too fast and too instinctive. He slapped his hand against his mouth to belatedly stifle it but, even now, the rest of the tent remained still and silent but for the light snores and heavy even breaths of the others sleeping.

Hesitantly, Francis rocked back. He bit down on his fingers to keep himself quiet and squeezed his eyes shut painfully tight, spots of color bursting out into the black. As if it might not be real. As if it might not be a sin if he shut his eyes. But he wasn't a child anymore. He knew God could still see him even if his own eyes were closed, and he only hoped He would forgive him.

Having made his choice, against his own better judgement or no, Francis quietly pulled his legs in from where they remained on his own cot. He tucked them neatly along the curve of Hawkeye's, their knees slotting together where they curled around him. It was a tight fit; the cots were narrow, having been made for one person only, and if he moved or jostled too much, he'd tip back over into his own. Or, more frighteningly, tip them both onto the ground with a ruckus that would surely wake everyone else around them. But even subconsciously, they'd managed it. They were as close as two people could be without taking off their thick robes and sweaters and blankets, and even with so many layers between them, Francis could almost believe he could feel Hawkeye's heart beating in time with his own.

Frivolous imagination, of course, but he shivered, rocking back once more with just a bit more confidence in the motion. If he was going to cross this line, he was going to enjoy it, he decided. And then the hand beneath his own pressed tighter to his chest in a sharp motion.

Once again Francis froze, childhood instincts kicking in again—if I don't move no one will know I'm here—but Hawkeye made no further motion either, and Francis wondered hesitantly (and perhaps foolishly), if perhaps he was still asleep. That the clenching of his hand was simply an instinctive reaction to whatever dream he had been having this whole time.

After a frighteningly long moment that seemed to stretch into eternity with no motion or sound from Hawkeye, Francis bit down harder on the knuckles between his teeth and rocked back. Good Lord, but that was nice. A shiver rocked through him at the thrill of it. The memories of what this had been like before he'd taken his vows so many years ago. The possibilities of what it could be like again if he was brave enough to throw caution to the wind. He would be far from the only priest to take this particular vow with a grain of salt…

His heart stopped when the hand on his chest clenched around the fabric of his sweater, and a low, almost silent chuckle puffed against the nape of his neck.

"Almost thought you were asleep," Hawkeye rasped, keeping his voice quiet despite being rough with sleep. Francis felt as though he had been turned to ice, unable to speak, unable to move. Frozen in humiliation and terror, yes, but also exhilaration—and that was the most frightening part of all. "But you're awake, aren't you?" Hawkeye asked.

He paused, giving Francis a moment to reply. And Francis wanted to. But he had no idea what to say or what to do. He still had the opportunity to play it off as if he had only just woken up as well. It wasn't too late to backtrack, to run safely back to his vow of celibacy, to do right by the priesthood and through that, God, Himself. All he had to do was apologize to Hawkeye for his 'unconscious' instincts, to laugh it off and extract himself from Hawkeye's arms and return to his own cot. Maybe try to quietly shuffle it a few inches away just for good measure. But he was further gone than he ever could have imagined because he couldn't bring himself to do it.

"Cat got your tongue, Father?" Hawkeye teased, and leaned his head forward so his forehead rested against the crown of Francis' head, his breath tickling his neck.

After another moment, his right hand slid out from underneath Francis', following a languid path down his chest before reaching up under his sweater to palm at his... 'Oh, God, Francis thought, breathing in with a sharp gasp... To palm at his erection through his trousers.

"Hmm..." Hawkeye murmured, and Francis could both hear the smirk on his face as well as feel it spreading against his scalp. "Do you want me to help you with that?"

As soon as Hawkeye put the question into words, Francis knew what his answer was. He was just too afraid to say it. Hawkeye hadn't woken anyone yet with his whispers, but Francis was petrified that if he put voice to his desires that the fragile bubble they existed in would burst.

After only a moment's hesitation, he gave a stiff nod.

"You know I can't do it with just that, Francis," Hawkeye replied, still a whisper but stripped bare of all pretense. Francis shivered at the use of his name, at the lack of humor and seductive teasing he was used to hearing from Hawkeye. Hawkeye slid his hand back up—not all the way, not even back over his sweater, but just to rest on the soft warm plane of Francis' belly. He breathed out a noise that sounded almost as if Hawkeye was surprised with himself. "I'm not used to looking a gift horse in the mouth, if you'll excuse the turn of phrase," he muttered ruefully. "But you're my friend before anything else, and... and I know what this means for you. I've gotta hear it from you, if you want this. I need you to tell me."

Francis was growing choked up at the sincerity in Hawkeye's voice. The lump in his throat was only expanding from gratitude for the gravity with which Hawkeye was taking this. He had known, of course, that all this time Hawkeye had been careful to always remain one step behind him, not out of respect for the church, but for him, and what his vows meant to him. Part of him wished Hawkeye would just follow his own instincts. To allow Francis the opportunity to not have to make the decision himself, to let it happen to him rather than having to ask for what he wanted.

But as soon as the thought crossed his mind in those words, he felt shame welling up within him, filling every crevice as he realized what a selfish thing that would be to ask of Hawkeye. That Hawkeye was protecting himself as much as he was trying to protect Francis.

Hawkeye didn't say another word. He simply stayed put while Francis took the time to battle the guilt and the shame within him. As Hawkeye's thumb stroked soothingly through the sparse hairs that trailed there above his waistband, Francis thought that Hawkeye might wait with him like this until sunrise, stay just like this, if that's how long it took him to make up his mind.

He felt untethered, like a riverboat being tossed by the tide into the ocean, but Hawkeye was there with a rope, drawing him back to a safe landing at the dock.

His body moved first. One more hesitant nod and his jaw opening on a silent syllable before he found his voice, scraping out a tremulous "Y—yes." Another quavering breath. "Please, Hawkeye," he said finally, and could only hope Hawkeye wouldn't make him specify please what.

Thankfully, Hawkeye seemed to understand what an enormous leap even that was for him, and it was only then that Francis realized he hadn't been the only one filled with nervous tension. Not until Hawkeye relaxed in such a shockingly fluid and all encompassing manner, letting out a heavy, relieved breath that Francis hadn't even known he was holding. He seemed to melt around Francis, pulling him in closer as his hand slid back down to knead at him through his trousers.

"God, Francis," Hawkeye sighed into his ear, his breath hot and damp against the sensitive skin and Francis shuddered against him, clapping his hand tightly back against his lips to stop himself from whining. "I never imagined it would be like this, but you have no idea how long I've been wanting to touch you."

If they weren't surrounded by their sleeping friends and coworkers, Francis might have tried to quip back, something about how Hawkeye shouldn't be so sure, how he had never been a man without temptation himself. But he didn't trust himself to keep quiet without the physical reminder of his hand clamping his mouth shut, so he just sunk into the sensations. He choked back whimpers as Hawkeye took his time, massaging him through his fatigues, and a gasp as those long, deft surgeon's fingers flicked open the buttons of his trousers with a practiced ease.

Francis could feel the wet spot he had been making in his underwear and he could tell from the pleased intake of breath in his ear that Hawkeye had found it as well. He could feel his cheeks burning up with embarrassment, but it only seemed to spur Hawkeye on with more fervor. His large, broad palm made long languid strokes, up and down Francis' length through the thin cotton US Army issue boxers. But just as tears pricked at Francis' eyes—an amalgamation of wild abandon, terror, joy, and overwhelm all at once, his hand moved abruptly away and Francis almost cried out at the loss of the sensation.

Hawkeye's hand trailed its way back up his chest until it gracefully came to rest over the one Francis had been pressing in a vice over his own mouth. Gently, Hawkeye pulled his hand out of the way and startled Francis by pressing a few of his own fingers against his lips in a silent request. Francis could feel his face going hot and red with a mixture of desire and embarrassment, but he complied, opening his mouth and letting Hawkeye's fingers inside, closing his lips around them. Hawkeye crooked them against his tongue and as Francis began to suck at them, he whispered into Francis' ear again.

"Good..." The tip of his nose brushed along the shell of Francis' ear, sending shock waves of simmering pleasure shooting through him. Hawkeye punctuated the praise by ducking his head to press a kiss to the nape of Francis' neck. "God, I wish I could look at you. But for now, just remember to be quiet, okay, Francis?"

The warning was unnecessary, Hawkeye had been making much more noise than he had, but he made a soft amused noise of agreement around Hawkeye's fingers and just nodded frantically.

"Good," Hawkeye breathed out as he shifted their weight together to slide his free hand under Francis' torso and around to his waistband, gripping him skin to skin. "That's so good, Francis," he repeated, and pressed a kiss to the back of his head as Francis stifled a sharp cry by clamping his lips shut around Hawkeye's fingers. It just barely managed to muffle the sound enough that it wouldn't wake any of the others, and he could feel with burning embarrassment the spread of Hawkeye's smile at his neck. The fingers in his mouth pressed down on his tongue, and Francis squirmed, grinding back against Hawkeye as spit welled up in his mouth.

Just when Francis began to worry that so much had built up that it would spill out, drool leaking down Hawkeye's palm, Hawkeye hummed, massaging his tongue with one more firm stroke. His fingers, now wet with Francis' spit, were warm as they slipped out from between his lips and dragged against his sensitive skin. His whole body felt lit up from the inside, buzzing like a live wire; all the frenetic energy generating and emanating out from Hawkeye's fingers finally grasping Francis' shaft, sliding up and down once, then twice. Francis slapped his hand back over his mouth when the pad of Hawkeye's thumb dragged over the tip, collecting some of the slick wetness that had been slowly and steadily dribbling from him and soaking his boxers. He bit down hard on his knuckles as Hawkeye spread it down the shaft, mixing the fluid with Francis' spit and squeezing slightly at the base as his hand met the coarse blonde curls where his length met his pelvis.

Not for the first time that night, Francis could feel his heart slamming against his rib cage and he wondered absently if Hawkeye could feel it too, even through their layers. If he could, he didn't say anything, he just let his hand make another slow, steady glide towards the tip, pulling his foreskin with it and then back down. He shivered as the sensitive skin there brushed against his damp boxers, before being once again encompassed by the simultaneous slide of Francis' foreskin and Hawkeye's hot hand.

Francis' hips jerked involuntarily into Hawkeye's grip, biting back a strangled groan at the way his hand tightened, increasing the pressure. Almost immediately, he felt as though the breath had been punched out of him entirely when, on the movement's rebound, he was reminded of Hawkeye's own hardness pressing insistently against the curve of his backside once again. The evidence of Hawkeye's desire—and not just desire, but desire for him—was right there, making itself known all while Hawkeye held the evidence of Francis' in the palm of his hand. It was as frightening as it was exhilarating. Francis had said yes. He had asked for this. As he made a self conscious motion to rut backwards against Hawkeye, thrilling at the noise it elicited, he knew it was all out in the open now.

All the flirtatious 'jokes', all the songs in the officers club, all the dancing around and innuendos—it was all real now. Francis had made it real tonight.

The understanding made him feel lightheaded, though it could also be the way Hawkeye's fingers had slid past his shaft to massage his testicles and then—oh, God—slipped a finger even further back to press at the skin directly between them and his... well his...

He almost lost it right there, at the piercing rush it sent through his entire nervous system. The only thing keeping him from going straight over the edge to his certain little death (not to mention the consequences of his sin), was the shot of terror that raced through him at the idea of Hawkeye's hand sliding even further back. And the alarm as he realized that the terror itself was laced with its own creeping hunger. He realized then what Eve must have felt like in the Garden of Eden. Felt himself—outside of his own body and inside hers, watching the long sinewy form of the serpent, slithering toward her with its silver tongue, telling her about everything she could learn and experience if only she took a bite. If only she gave in, broke the one rule that had been set for her in favor of her own incredibly human desire.

He was brought back to reality by the sharp, bitter tang of iron in his mouth and realized he had bitten down so hard on his knuckles that he had broken skin. He quickly pressed the tip of his tongue to the wound, wrapping his lips around it to stop the bleeding, and tried to brush off the thought of Eve's eventual punishment for her choice. The way she and all women after her bled in atonement for her sin. He tore his hand away from his mouth, tucking the bleeding finger safely against the collar of his bathrobe to staunch the flow instead.

But Hawkeye didn't make any efforts to reach back further, just slid his hand back over Francis' testicles in a gentle motion, rolling them back and forth between his fingers once, twice, in a way that made a whimper bubble up in his throat, before taking hold of his shaft again.

Francis' breath was heavy in his chest, and all of a sudden he realized how incredibly hot it was under the blankets and wrapped up in all his layers. He could feel the sweat wicking away from his back and chest onto his undershirt as he rocked, the damp fabric cooling and brushing against his skin with every thrust, but not doing a thing to slow the fever rising through him.

"H—Hawkeye," he whined, as the man ground his hips up and into Francis' as the speed of his fingers around Francis' shaft increased. He didn't know what he was trying to say, the overwhelming swirl of sensation drowning him from the inside out, but Hawkeye seemed to understand just fine. He didn't need Francis to say it.

All he said in return was a soft reminder. "Shhh...", and with a motion that took a small amount of effort, used the arm that had been pinned to the cot underneath Francis' torso to lift him ever so slightly. The arm curled up and around, so Francis was fully cradled against his chest, until another few fingers were supplied against his lips like a sacrament. "Here," Hawkeye said into his ear, hushed and rasping, reminding him to be quiet.

The pads of Hawkeye's fingers sat there against his lips in an offering, not unlike the Eucharist themselves, and Francis shook at the thought, his head spinning, but he was too far gone to do anything but accept. With one more quavering breath, he opened his lips to welcome the fingers inside, suckling at them, feeling the smooth pads of the tips on his tongue, the knuckles between his lips. Hawkeye let out a shuddering gasp of his own at that and Francis couldn't help but light up with electric delight at the faraway understanding that he had pulled that sound from Hawkeye. At the idea of what other sounds he might make, how talkative he might be, if they were in any other situation than the one they were in now.

When Hawkeye's long, beautiful nose burrowed into the hood of his sweater, his chin pulling it down just enough to kiss and lick at the sensitive junction where his shoulder and neck met, to scrape his teeth against the delicate skin there, Francis was done for.

All the pressure and sensation that had been building and overwhelming him seemed to reach its apex as his whole body tensed, arching like a bow-string against the firm line of Hawkeye's torso along his back. He could feel the blood rushing in his shaft underneath Hawkeye's fingers, every point of contact between them lighting up like a switchboard as he was overtaken by it. He twitched involuntarily in Hawkeye's grasp, releasing stifled whines around his fingers that turned into muffled sobs, as all the pent up energy roiling low in his belly seemed to erupt at once and in every direction.

He was vaguely aware of the hot spurting in his trousers, of Hawkeye's gentle soothing voice whispering things he couldn't understand over the rushing in his ears. All he knew was that he was shaking in Hawkeye's grasp as he worked Francis through it, not stopping the fast, firm strokes until every last drop had been wrested from him. Hawkeye's hips were stuttering behind his and he didn't pull his hand away until Francis began desperately pawing at it, the feeling of Hawkeye's skin against his having changed abruptly into a sensation so intense it was almost painful.

"Sorry," Hawkeye breathed, pulling his fingers from Francis' mouth as his chest rose and fell heavily behind him. He was still kissing his neck as he came down from his own peak, and he quickly but carefully extracted his hand from Francis' fatigues. With his eyes adjusted to the darkness, Francis could see the faintest reflection of moonlight off of the fluid that was now coating Hawkeye's fingers and he gasped as Hawkeye drew them into his mouth, licking and sucking Francis' release off of them.

Francis was awestruck by the way he seemed to savor it, a low, ravenous groan rumbling in his chest, just like the rare occasions when Francis had had the opportunity to see Hawkeye relish truly good food. His chest ached at the realization and he wished he could roll over and press his lips to Hawkeye's without fear of disturbing their precarious weight distribution on the cot.

But, all of a sudden, he was taken by surprise when a gasping, shuddering breath escaped his throat and broke off into a sniffle. It was that which made him realize that he had been crying. Hot tears were pricking at the corners of his eyes and, now that he no longer had Hawkeye's fingers in his mouth to stifle them, the hitching breaths coming from deep in his chest were audible. It was as if the fog of arousal that had been dampening his fears and wrapping him up in a thick, warm blanket of unreality was lifting, and a devastating clarity was descending upon him.

"Francis?" Hawkeye's voice was sharply alert now, and Francis could feel the concern in it. As soon as he heard the worry, it engulfed him in a wave of guilt as strong as a tsunami, because he knew how Hawkeye would take it if he knew what Francis was feeling now. How he would blame himself when he didn't do anything wrong. When the only thing Hawkeye was guilty of was giving Francis everything he asked him for and not a single thing more or less.

Hawkeye wouldn't understand that every hurt, every fear he was feeling, that every holy consequence he was imagining raining down on him for failing this test, was Francis' fault, and Francis' fault alone. He was the one who should have resisted. He was the one who should have pulled away before anything had happened, before Hawkeye even woke up. And he had known it too. He had consciously thought to do it, known it was the right, Godly choice, and then defied it anyway. And oh Lord, he had done so even in the wake of explicitly asking God to protect him from sin. But when his faith was tested he had crumpled like a paper flower in the rain. How could he call himself a messenger of God if this was all it took for him to break his vows?

"Francis?" Hawkeye asked again, and he was louder this time, audibly nervous, and the volume was what snapped Francis out of his spiral. They couldn't wake anyone. Not now, not after all of that.

"Oh, I… I'm sorry," he breathed, forcing out a quiet but pleasant enough chuckle. "I'm fine, Hawkeye," he lied, because what was one more sin to add to his list after the events of the night? He wiped at his tears and sniffed softly. "Really," he whispered at Hawkeye's quiet hesitation, and when Hawkeye tentatively reached a hand up to brush the hair back from his now sweaty brow, he leaned into the touch. "I'm alright," he lied again. He was burning with how great and how terrible the gentle feeling of Hawkeye's warm fingers were along his temple in contrast to the frigid air which was cooling his sweat and making him shiver now in the aftermath of their actions.

"Are you sure?" Hawkeye asked, as he brought the arm back down and snaked it around Francis' waist, pulling him closer again and breathing in the smell of his hair.

Francis allowed himself to be tucked neatly back into the curve of Hawkeye's body, and nodded. "Yes," he said quietly, sniffling again and feeling the shame pile down on him like rocks. He lied again as if telling the shame to give him more weight. To crush him beneath it's bulk. "It was just..." he hesitated. He wasn't sure what to say. All he knew was that he wanted to give Hawkeye one last truth from himself before this night was over. "It's been a long time," he settled on finally. "And even back then, it was never like that."

It would have to do. God help him.

He could feel Hawkeye relax around him, the smile spreading on his face against Francis' neck. Another boulder settled on his chest.

"Alright," Hawkeye said, hesitant but clearly wanting to believe him, and pressed another kiss to his neck, this time just behind his ear. He nuzzled into the pocket between Francis' skin and the bulky hood of his sweater. "You were incredible, Francis," he mumbled, his voice heavy with oncoming sleep. "Ten out of ten."

Francis couldn't breathe with the weight that was pressing down on him.

"Can't wait to kiss you properly tomorrow."

Francis closed his eyes at that, and swallowed back the tears that were still welling up and threatening to fall. He didn't deserve to cry right now. Thankfully Hawkeye didn't seem to expect a reply, as his breathing quickly slowed, smoothing out to the steady, even keel of sleep.

"Goodnight, Hawkeye," he whispered into the leaden silence.

He laid there, feeling Hawkeye's breath on his neck, his arms around his chest, and the sticky, drying mess in his trousers until he was sure Hawkeye wouldn't wake.

Captain Pierce was famous for being a heavy sleeper, after all.

When he eased himself out from the weight of the man's arms, it didn't seem to unburden him of the metaphorical weight he was now carrying—not that he expected it to. He slid himself back onto his own cot, shivering at the distinct drop in temperature as he moved further from the body heat that had, only twenty minutes ago, been one of the best things he had ever felt.

He laid there, gripping his crucifix close to his heart and, reflecting on his actions, tried to decide what he was supposed to do. How could he possibly make things right with God? Was it even possible for God to ever forgive him? Logically he knew that God forgave all sins, that Jesus Christ, his son had died for the sins of all humans. But Francis was a priest. He wasn't just any person. He was supposed to be above human desires of the flesh. How could anyone trust him to be their spiritual support system if he couldn't resist even that? How could he trust himself behind the pulpit after doing what he had done just now not only to God, but to his friend?

He knew he wouldn't get even a single wink of sleep more now, and so he waited in the dark and the quiet until, hours later, Radar woke for reveille. Francis closed his eyes, a precautionary measure, despite knowing Radar wouldn't look at him too closely, and waited until the boy had gathered his bugle and dragged himself sluggishly to the door. Radar paused once there, hesitating as if something was pulling at him, and Francis froze, careful to keep his breathing steady and unnoticeable until, thank the Lord, Radar pulled open the door of the swamp and left the tent.

As soon as a few minutes had passed, Francis quietly pulled himself out of bed himself, fishing for his spectacles in the dark and placing them back on his face before donning his panama hat. He pulled his boots back on, carefully rolled his blankets, and removed his thin, flat pillow from the cot.

He took one last guilty look at Captain Pierce, sleeping peacefully in his cot, before shouldering his rucksack and making his way out of the tent himself, quiet as a shadow. It was with the heavy sensation of another rock adding to his pile that he realized it was Sunday.

Just as well he couldn't sleep. He'd return to his own tent, where he was safe and free of temptation, to prepare his sermons. He would go to the mess tent chapel and deliver them—there wasn't another choice, he had to make sure no one knew that anything was off. Hawkeye never attended his sermons anyway, so he should be able to manage them. And then, God willing, there wouldn't be any casualties today. He needed to ask Colonel Potter for a favor.

• Slow burn
• Friends to lovers
• Enemies to lovers
• Annoyances to lovers
• Fake relationship turns real
• And there was only one bed!
• Miscommunication/poor communication forcing a conflict to come to a head
• "Let me take care of you" someone who needs it being forced to rest/take a break
• Time loops
• Person A sees Person B kissing/hooking up with/etc someone else and is forced to the uncomfortable realization of how into Person B they are/how they can't keep hiding from themself if they're repressed/etc.
• Huddling for warmth turning into cuddling into kissing and maybe into more if you'd like!
• Hurt/Comfort (as long as there's plenty of comfort + a happy ending!)
• Relationship dynamics growing/developing
• Genderfuckery
• Sex Pollen (though I'd prefer there be an at least marginally-plausible explanation behind it)

• Begging
• Bondage
• CNC
• Cockwarming
• Consensual somno
• Coming clothed/partially clothed/untouched
• Desperation
• Dirty talk
• D/s play
• Edging
• Exhibitionism
• Facials
• Free Use
• Impact play
• Praise kink
• Public/Semi-public sex
• Sex Pollen
• Teasing
• Voyeurism

• 1st or 2nd Person POV
• Reader Inserts/OCs
• Social Media AUs/Chat fics
• Modern/Mundane AUs/AUs that leave the canon setting entirely - Canon divergence/adding magical/fantasy elements to the canon setting is fine/etc, but, unless otherwise specified, I prefer the established canon universe for these fandoms.
• Dark fic/Unhappy endings/Hurt w/ no comfort
• Non-Canonical Major Character Death
• Unrequited/one-sided love between chosen ship characters (side/background characters are fine)
• Non-Con (dub-con okay)
• A/B/O (I don't hate this inherently but I'm incredibly picky about it so I'd prefer not to receive it from a stranger. If you happen to be a close friend and you know what I like, I trust your judgement.)
• Cis Mpreg outside of A/B/O
• Cis Genderbending (making a character trans/nonbinary is great, but I do not want "has always been a cis [x gender]" type of gender bending.
• Abuse / Violence / Gore (with the exception that canon typical blood/violence/etc is fine)
• Smut involving bodily waste
• Outsider POV

• sfw or nsfw: Jud and Blanc not being able to let go of the unspoken tension between them after the case/continuing to stay in touch - feelings developing and they each either ignore and/or subtly encourage them, even if they both know (for their own reasons) that they should nip this in the bud and try to move on until tension finally breaks and they can't hold it in anymore. Slow, failed attempt at a controlled burn turning into a forest fire kind of thing.
• sfw or nsfw: Blanc divorce era - Blanc wanting Jud and feeling guilty about it (maybe bc the divorce is fresh and he feels guilty for moving on so fast or because his and Phillip's relationship is on the rocks/divorce hasn't happened yet but is on the horizon). Jud also having feelings for Blanc and dealing w his own guilt about that re: both his faith/vows but also either knowing Blanc is in the middle of getting or is freshly divorced or bc he knows Blanc isn't divorced yet. Whatever direction you want, go for it. I love some angst as long as there's a happy/hopeful ending for at least Judblanc.
• nsfw: first time smut - mutual pining + the dam breaking and they can't hold back anymore. Jud maybe having agonized about this for so long but once things snap/he makes the decision to let go and let himself have what he wants, being all in in a way that is perhaps a surprise to Blanc.
• nsfw: Jud Top-Drop aftercare - if you wanted to go for Top Jud and wanted to play in this space: I do think it would be delicious to play with his anxieties about his (real or percieved) violent/aggressive instincts and how that might play out wrt sex/how that kind of. fear/guilt affects him both in the moment and after.

• Everything from the main DNW list unless otherwise specified in fandom or ship-specific likes/prompts
• Character bashing of BJ or Trapper (or anyone but Frank, really, but it's usually only something I see regularly for one of those two)
• Intense physical whump beyond exhaustion/fatigue/types of things that happen in canon. Someone getting injured in the line of duty (but ending up fine) is fine. Torture/gore/extreme direct violence/etc is not what I’m after.
• AUs that change the setting (see specific notes in ships)
• A/B/O (unless you know me personally/we have talked about what I like)
• Any non-requested Archive Warnings
• Lasting pregnancy (see: What's Up Doc prompt in Houlihawk section)

• Daniel noticing the ways Hawkeye is different (read: queer) throughout Hawkeye's life - maybe seeing it before Hawkeye does as a kid or noticing it but not saying anything outright until Hawkeye is ready to tell him himself. being very loving and accepting when Hawkeye does come out or if he perhaps caught Hawkeye & Tommy messing around or something, idk. could go in many different directions, whatever you want!
• Post GFA: Hawkeye coming back from the war/coming home to Crabapple Cove - he's different/broken/distant/etc. Not ready to help at the clinic and even when he does get to that point, can't be around any of their pediatric patients, etc. Daniel helping him find himself again/being a loving and supportive parent/etc.
• Daniel raising Hawkeye alone after his wife dies - struggling through his own grief while also trying to support his son through his. other challenges they face, etc. I tend to hc Hawkeye as Jewish via his mom, but that Daniel is not Jewish. would love to see him maybe struggle trying to help Hawkeye remain connected to the faith without any real support (not a lot of Jewish folks in a tiny rural Maine town in the 1920s), feeling like he's failing Hawkeye, etc. However this pans out, up to you!
• Hawkeye introducing Daniel to his partner at some point after the war - (Father Mulcahy? Sidney? BJ? Trapper? Whoever you like, really.) Perhaps the partner is nervous about being open about their relationship with Hawkeye's father, but Daniel is so welcoming and kind.

• explorations of trauma
• Jewish Hawkeye, non-Jewish Daniel
• non-linear narratives
• banter
• fluff
• family bonding
• loving/supportive parental relationship
• specifically, Daniel being a supportive parent of a queer child while the setting/surrounding culture still being rooted in the reality of a queer person in the time period

• sfw or nsfw: (somewhat both, but mostly hurt Margaret) What's Up Doc episode tag - the potential baby being Hawkeye's (happened practically RIGHT after Comrades in Arms & she hadn't seen Donald in awhile, despite the story she tries to tell in canon. Whether or not either of them acknowledge this verbally is up to you. Whether or not you go w/ canonical false alarm or actual pregnancy up to you, but would love to see something about that episode through the lens of that circumstance, If she is pregnant, having Hawkeye's support of whatever decision she makes/being there for both verbal/moral comfort as well as physical affection and she decides that she needs to get an abortion, both for her career/future in that sense, and maybe even for the marriage she's still trying to save. Even if Hawkeye has offered to "do the right thing" and told her he'd marry her if she wanted to divorce Donald (I especially love this in regard to them not necessarily even trying to kid themselves that they could work as a long term romantic partnership, but discussing the idea of doing it as friends for their kid). Them both having feelings about that, even if they know it's what's best. 
• sfw: (somewhat both, but mostly hurt Hawkeye) Another trip to an Aid Station in the mid/later season era - Hawkeye being seriously injured/can't stand long enough to treat patients/Margaret has to take over. getting Hawkeye stable, potentially with instruction from Hawkeye on surgical techniques that she isn't trained on/isn't confident enough to do on her own (even if she's been working in the MASH long enough that she probably could do it on her own). Doing the same thing to have Margaret do everything she can for the soldiers at the Aid Station. Perhaps the aftermath/further care/comfort as well once things have calmed down and either they're still waiting on help and have to sleep there overnight or if they get brought back to the 4077th.
• sfw or nsfw: (hurt Margaret) Hawkeye comforting Margaret after her dad being shitty - circumstances of what happened up to you - maybe it's after Father's Day or a disheartening or cruel (intentionally or unintentionally) letter. Maybe she broke the news of her divorce to her father and he was really shitty about it. Or whatever other ideas you have. Found family/best friend (or best friend with benefits) being there for her in the aftermath, comforting her/making her feel better. 
• sfw or nsfw: (hurt Hawkeye) Circa WTK - Margaret offering comfort to Hawkeye re: Trapper being gone. Maybe she knew about Trapper, maybe she didn't (if she did, I'd prefer to her being surprisingly cool about it, especially if this is the first time Hawkeye finds out that she knew). Perhaps past Margtraphawk. Hawkeye being comforted/understood in a safe way where he can be open about how upset he is without being afraid of his life being ruined by a blue discharge. Maybe she didn't know about Traphawk and she comes to him with the intention of chewing him out for not being as on top of things as before, even after all that time on R&R and he breaks down - either she figures it out on her own, or he's feeling low enough to tell her because things are already bad enough, what's one more life ruining thing? But she won't tell anyone/etc, stays with him/offers comfort when he needs it. Would even love some dumb light hearted lecherous Hawkeye comments towards the end where he's trying to save face and she lets it slide given the circumstances but not without telling him that's the only pass he gets and if he tries it again, she'll knock his teeth out or some shit.

• strong/deep friendship/respect for each other despite bickering/sometimes being at each other's throats
• the ways their relationship grows and deepens throughout canon
• casual intimacy
• Hawkeye being a cad and Margaret telling him off for it
• non-linear narratives
• fluff
• found family

• Everything from the main DNW list unless otherwise specified in fandom or ship-specific likes/prompts
• Arthur-bashing
• Major Character Death (canonical or otherwise - either pre-Camlann or fix it please 😭)
• Merlin abandoning his destiny (they could fantasize about running away together but not actually do it, etc.)
• AUs that change the setting
• Any non-requested Archive Warnings

• sfw or nsfw: Merlin revealing his magic to Gwaine - either by accident or on purpose, by choice or by necessity. Whether Gwaine already knew or not is up to you! Gwaine promising he's with Merlin no matter what/will help him keep his secret/etc. Perhaps this coincides with a feelings confession from one or both of them/getting together fic.
• sfw or nsfw: Gwaine pining after Merlin and thinking Merlin is in love with Arthur - Whether Merlin does also have unrequited feelings for Arthur too is up to you, but he does have feelings for Gwaine regarless and they get together.
• sfw: Hurt/Comfort, Merlin getting whumped and Gwaine is there to save the day. - Gwaine either rescues him from whatever he's gotten himself into or, perhaps, helps him in the aftermath.
• nsfw: Merwaine ill advised drunken hook up after pulling off a scheme - neither of them has ever admitted their feelings beforehand and they have to deal with the emotional fall out the next morning/following days or weeks. How long it takes for them to get their shit together, up to you.

• Slow burn
• Friends to lovers
• Enemies to lovers
• Annoyances to lovers
• Fake relationship turns real
• And there was only one bed!
• Miscommunication/poor communication forcing a conflict to come to a head
• "Let me take care of you" someone who needs it being forced to rest/take a break
• Time loops
• Person A sees Person B kissing/hooking up with/etc someone else and is forced to the uncomfortable realization of how into Person B they are/how they can't keep hiding from themself if they're repressed/etc.
• Huddling for warmth turning into cuddling into kissing and maybe into more if you'd like!
• Hurt/Comfort (as long as there's plenty of comfort + a happy ending!)
• Relationship dynamics growing/developing
• Genderfuckery
• Sex Pollen (though I'd prefer there be an at least semi-plausible within canon explanation behind it)

• Begging
• Bondage
• CNC
• Cockwarming
• Consensual somno
• Coming clothed/partially clothed/untouched
• Desperation
• Dirty talk
• D/s play
• Edging
• Exhibitionism
• Facials
• Free Use
• Impact play
• Praise kink
• Public/Semi-public sex
• Sex Pollen
• Teasing
• Voyeurism

• 1st or 2nd Person POV
• Reader Inserts/OCs
• Social Media AUs/Chat fics
• Gen
• Modern/Mundane AUs/AUs that leave the canon setting entirely - Canon divergence/adding magic to the canon setting is fine/etc, but I prefer to remain in the general canon universe/timeline.
• Character bashing (especially for the benefit of others) / overly comedic characterizations not in line with the source material / etc. Fandom specific notes may have more info on this. Particularly Trapper. As someone who genuinely likes both Traphawk and Beejhawk, it really bothers me when people villainize him/go the “Dark Trapper” route/etc just to make BJ look like a knight in shining armor to Hawkeye's damsel in distress. It's one thing for that to be BJ's perception/mental image of Trapper before meeting him, but I’d prefer it be clear that that's just his perception and not reality
• Unhappy endings
• Hurt w/ no comfort
• Major Character Death
• Unrequited/one-sided love between chosen ship characters (side/background characters are fine)
• Non-Con (dub-con okay, but if it's particularly dubious maybe check in with me first)
• A/B/O (I don't hate this inherently but I'm incredibly picky about it so I'd prefer not to receive it from a stranger. If you happen to be a close friend and you know what I like, I trust your judgement.)
• Cis Mpreg outside of A/B/O
• Cis Genderbending (making a character trans/nonbinary is great, but I do not want "has always been a cis [x gender]" type of gender bending.
• Abuse / Violence / Gore (with the exception that canon typical blood/violence/etc is fine)
• Smut involving bodily waste
• Outsider POV
• Dark Fic / Hopeless Endings
• No Unrequested Ao3 Warnings

• (both hurt) Your classic Traphawk Post-War Reunion w Trapper having thought Hawkeye was dead: Past Traphawk pre-S4, now post-war and Hawkeye has come home. Trapper never wrote so Hawkeye doesn't expect to ever see him again until he runs into Trapper - perhaps at some point he ends up working at the same hospital or Charles works at the same hospital as Trapper and has invited Hawkeye to a function there, not knowing that his colleague Dr. McIntyre is the infamous Trapper. All Hawkeye's hurt from Trapper seemingly abandoning him/never writing/just leaving him w a kiss on the cheek and nothing else start bubbling up again, meanwhile Trapper looks like he's seeing a ghost and is devastated himself. They have to either find a private space to talk wherever they are or pretend everything is fine until they can go to one of their homes afterwards to be alone. They talk/fight/eventually can't keep their hands off each other - sex as a coping mechanism/physical comfort leading to eventual emotional/other comfort afterwards laying in bed together. Maybe some crying. Hopeful and/or happy ending! NSFW, ideally.
• (hurt Hawkeye) Hawkeye overworked and exhausted and Trapper taking care of him whether Hawk likes it or not: A la Dr. Pierce and Mr. Hyde but not tagged to that episode. They've been working long hours, Hawkeye hasn't gotten enough sleep, maybe it's immediately post Tommy's death or maybe a Sticky Wicket situation or whatever other circumstances, but Hawkeye is in bad shape both physically and emotionally and is not taking care of himself/just keeps pushing himself and Trapper has to take matters into his own hands. A few, but not all of my fav relevant Ao3 request tags that you could use any or all of for this: A doesn't take care of their needs and dissociates so B helps them get back to normal, Character A sings Character B to Sleep, Exhausted insomniac fucked to sleep, BDSM - Sub lovingly dommed into accepting words of love and praise until they cry from overwhelm, Helping hurt character to dress/undress, Back rubs/hair stroking to help a sick/hurt character sleep, Rubbing a character's hands to ease tension/stiffness after long hours of work, Character trying to hold it together is clearly fraying at the edges. Would love NSFW, but SFW good too!
• (hurt Hawkeye OR hurt Trapper) Character Tries to Convince Themselves They're Fine With Casual Sex; They're Not: They flirt with each other so incessantly and I love that it can be read externally both as genuine and as a joke, and perhaps it's confusing even for them. It gets taken a little too far maybe and things happen, but one of them is still unsure if it's real or casual or a joke/game of chicken to the other and is struggling with the casual nature of where things have gone. They think they can handle it but it's hurting them pretty damn bad. Maybe one offered a night of sex as stakes in a poker game and whoever is offered this is now having feelings about what they've been wanted so badly being offered to them in such an impersonal way or what have you. Whatever the circumstance you choose, I love the angst of deciding whether you want to take what you can get in the way you can get it or not wanting it if it's not real on both sides (it should end up that it is real on both sides. while I love some angst/conflict, I do want a happy ending)! NSFW, ideally.
• (hurt Hawkeye) Bathing/showering together as comfort: Could be post a physical injury or exhaustion/mental or emotional distress/what have you. But whether they're in the officer's showers in camp or at a hotel on well deserved R&R in Tokyo/Seoul, Trapper taking care of Hawkeye/taking him apart to help him relax/wind down/feel better/care for him in whatever way he needs. Helping him dress/undress, cleaning his body, being both gentle and teasing/flirty in the way they are, washing his hair, just general body worship/physical affection and comfort. Lots of kissing. Helping him stand if he's physically injured or so exhausted that he can't. Taking him to bed (whether their big fluffy hotel bed or their cots shoved together in the Swamp with Frank conveniently gone for the night) and giving him a massage/rub down that could - but doesn't have to - lead to gentle, tender sex. Running his fingers through Hawkeye's hair/rubbing his back until he falls asleep. etc. NSFW or SFW are both good for this prompt.
• (both hurt or hurt Hawkeye) At an aid station or trapped behind enemy lines and Hawkeye or both is seriously injured: What it says on the tin basically. Them at an aid station or making a delivery of medicine to the orphanage or trying to get to another MASH to either give a demonstration or because they were called for help - whatever the circumstances, Hawkeye or both of them have been seriously injured. Maybe the aid station was bombed. Maybe Hawkeye accidentally drove over a landmine in the jeep and he or both of them are varying levels of hurt. Maybe they got lost and ended up behind enemy lines, and are now hiding and trying to make sure whoever is hurt will make it through the night. Having to perform emergency medicine on your friend/lover (whether pining or established relationship), without access to the proper tools and equipment, only what is in their medicine bag (or what's left of their medicine bag if they were shelled/drove over a mine). Mutual pining if not established relationship. Happy ending for romance, happy or hopeful ending re: injuries ❤️ SFW or NSFW good for this prompt but probably depends on how severe the injuries 😅

• All from general unless specifically requested in the Ao3 Sign Up
• Dark Trapper
• Graphic Violence (outside of specified tags/what is canon-typical)
• Rape/Non-Con
• Major Character Death
• Underage Sex
• Bodily Fluids aside from blood
• AUs that change the setting (pre or post war is okay though)
• A/B/O (unless you know me personally/we have talked about what I like)

• (hurt Hawkeye or hurt Charles) One being hurt either physically or emotionally and surprising the other by coming to him for comfort instead of someone else/etc: How/why he is hurt/why he didn't go to BJ probably (if hurt Hawkeye) or someone else or the surprise being that he came for help at all (if hurt Charles) is up to you! Perhaps the hurt character is sick but not seriously injured and wants care. Perhaps they have a head injury and, in their current state of no filter, kept asking for the other who they've been secretly pining for or keeps disclosing things that will embarrass them later. Maybe the hurt character has lost several patients and is having a crisis of confidence and goes to the other for help (perhaps Hawk didn't go to BJ, for example, because he knows BJ would just try to make him feel better, whereas he knows or at least expects that Charles will be brutally honest with him. Perhaps Charles goes to Hawkeye because he's the surgeon at the MASH that Charles most respects and/or he has secret feelings for Hawkeye and wants to be reassured by him. Idk - if you have other ideas, go for it! Just the surprise of the comforter at being asked for comfort by the comfortee specifically, and eventually leading to both the hurt character getting the comfort they needed and perhaps even a new romantic/physical development in their relationship. Simple/gentle touches having a huge impact. All that good stuff. NSFW or SFW both good for this prompt.
• (hurt Charles) Agitated control freak needs to be dominated sexually to calm down and is bad at asking for it: What it says on the tin. The tag I wasn't expecting, but when I saw, knew it was perfect for this ship. Would love to have this maybe be an ongoing situation that they don't instigate often, especially since Charles is so bad at asking for it when he needs it, and they don't really talk about it ever outside of the occasions under which it happens (probably because Charles avoids any attempts Hawkeye makes to talk about it/discuss boundaries), so perhaps some amount of under-negotiated kink. But it's basically fallen into a pattern of Charles getting worse and worse, more and more insufferable to be around (I love him but he can get insufferable lmfao), and eventually it reaches a peak where something or someone is going to blow, so Hawkeye tracks him down, makes sure they have privacy and doms the hell out of him until he breaks and calms down/gets what he needs. Still bottom Hawkeye but bottom =/= sub. NSFW for this one obviously 😅 
• (hurt Hawkeye) BDSM - Sub lovingly dommed into accepting words of love and praise until they cry from overwhelm: Kind of tangential/a reverse to the previous prompt, haha. Similar, but different. Hawkeye's been overdoing it/being too hard on himself (again, perhaps he lost a patient/something went wrong in surgery/is just overworked) - but whatever the problem he needs to give himself a fucking break and he won't do it, so Charles will just have to Make Him™ 😇 This could be the latest in an ongoing situation, but Hawkeye is less ashamed of talking about shit so could still be under-negotiated but could also be more sorted out, BUT I thin it might be more fun to be under-negotiated, but in the sense of this is the first time it's ever happened/maybe Charles kind of falls into doing it unintentionally but then realizes that it's getting through/that it's working, so he just keeps going and it's very cathartic for both of them tbh, but especially Hawkeye. Charles is also surprisingly (to Hawkeye, esp if its the first time it's happened) kind about it in the aftermath/doesn't mock him or use it against him or anything. It's just good and what he needed and maybe leaves off in a place either explicit or open ended agreement that if he needs this again, to just say so/do some kind of safe word/signal and Charles will be there to help him again in the future. NSFW for this one obviously 😅 
• (hurt Hawkeye or hurt Charles) hurt character sustains a serious but temporary injury or disability: This prompt is much more general/what it says on the tin kind of request but thinking about like a serious hand injury or like the time when Hawk was temporarily blinded by the stove - something along those lines. But the other character taking care of them both medically but also helping them with tasks/as well as emotionally/with their fears anxieties of what if it's permanent. Some of my requested Ao3 tags that are relevant: Touch Starved - Character Startled by How Good Being Touched Feels, Character feels useless/like a burden due to their illness/injury, Character A tries to help Character B without offending their pride and dignity, running fingers through hair in a calming way, Character doesn't realize how badly they're hurt until they collapse, Character is an awful patientDoctor/patient both trying to ignore how sexually intimate this treatment is. Would love to have this be a getting together fic rather than established relationship or at least a pre-relationship/feelings clearly develop during it and future relationship is inevitable kind of deal. SFW or NSFW both good for this prompt.
• (both hurt) Sons and Bowler's episode tag: I love how gently but insistently Charles is there for Hawkeye all throughout this episode and I would love to see something in the aftermath of the episode. Charles following up with Hawkeye who is so relieved that his dad is okay but perhaps still processing the fear/anxiety he'd been experiencing all day/hasn't gotten it all out of his system yet and doesn't ask but is relieved when Charles finds him and helps him get his mind off of it. Also the emotions about Charles' upbringing that were stirred up during the episode coming into play/Hawkeye reassuring Charles in some way/really seeing Charles as a person in all the ways that his family (except for Honoria) never did. NSFW or SFW both good for this one.

• All from general unless specifically requested in the Ao3 Sign Up
• Graphic Violence (outside of specified tags/what is canon-typical)
• Rape/Non-Con
• Major Character Death
• Underage Sex
• Bodily Fluids aside from blood
• AUs that change the setting (post war is okay though)
• A/B/O

• (somewhat both, but mostly hurt Margaret) What's Up Doc episode tag: As far as we know, Margaret hasn't actually seen Donald in awhile, and I hc that, whether she was able to admit it or not, if she had been pregnant, the baby probably would have been Hawkeye's (re: Comrades in Arms), not Donald's, with the likelihood of that being part of it contributing to why she's so stressed (and also melancholy at the end that she wasn't, since by this point in the show, we know Donald is a scum bag and she and Hawkeye are so much closer). Would love to see something about that episode through the lens of that circumstance, and would especially love the hurt/comfort to be that she is in fact pregnant and, with Hawkeye's support of whatever decision she makes/being there for both verbal/moral comfort as well as physical affection, she decides that she needs to get an abortion, both for her career/future in that sense, and maybe even for the marriage she's still trying to save. Even if Hawkeye has offered to "do the right thing" and told her he'd marry her if she wanted to divorce Donald (I especially love this in regard to them not necessarily even trying to kid themselves that they could work as a long term romantic partnership, but discussing the idea of doing it as friends for their kid). Them both having feelings about that, even if they know it's what's best. And in the end, once she's made her decision, Hawkeye organizing/doing the procedure for her in secret since it's illegal/comforting her afterward.
• (somewhat both, but mostly hurt Hawkeye) Another trip to an Aid Station in the mid/later season era: Hawkeye gets seriously injured and can't treat himself/can't stand long enough to treat patients. They call for help and Margaret tries to get Hawkeye stable, potentially with instruction from Hawkeye on surgical techniques that she isn't trained on/isn't confident enough to do on her own (even if she's been working in the MASH long enough that she probably could do it on her own). Maybe even once Hawkeye is stable enough that he isn't going to bleed out or what have you but either unable to stand or is too shaky/unsteady to safely operate, them doing a similar routine to have Margaret do everything she can to help/operate on the soldiers at the Aid Station with Hawkeye guiding her through it/taking on the role of nurse and handing her objects. Would love to see the aftermath/further care/comfort as well once things have calmed down and either they're still waiting on help and have to sleep there overnight or if they get brought back to the 4077th. Huddling for warmth/affectionate touch/joking around/literal sleeping together.
• (hurt Margaret) Hawkeye comforting Margaret after her dad being shitty: Circumstances of what happened up to you - maybe it's after Father's Day or a disheartening or cruel (intentionally or unintentionally) letter. Maybe she broke the news of her divorce to her father and he was really shitty about it. Or whatever other ideas you have. Found family/best friend (or best friend with benefits) being there for her in the aftermath, comforting her/making her feel better. Could be SFW or NSFW, I love both.
• (hurt Hawkeye) Circa WTK, Margaret offering comfort to Hawkeye re: Trapper being gone: Maybe she knew about Traphawk or maybe she didn't (if she did, I'd prefer to her being surprisingly cool about it, especially if this is the first time Hawkeye finds out that she knew). Perhaps it's even a past Margtraphawk situation and they're both upset, even if Hawkeye is way more fully hurt/broken about it). But I like the small hints of Margaret being more sympathetic to Hawkeye than Frank when Trapper leaves and it would be cool to see that confirmed. Could be NSFW but I think I'm actually leaning towards SFW for this one, mainly with Hawkeye just being comforted/understood in a safe way where he can be open about how upset he is without being afraid of his life being ruined by a blue discharge. Maybe she didn't know about Traphawk and she comes to him with the intention of chewing him out for not being as on top of things as before, even after all that time on R&R and he breaks down - either she figures it out on her own, or he's feeling low enough to tell her because things are already bad enough, what's one more life ruining thing? But, even if she's surprised/taken aback, it all makes sense in retrospect and she just holds him/tells him it's okay/she won't tell anyone/etc and just stays with him/offers comfort when he needs it. Would even love some dumb light hearted lecherous Hawkeye comments towards the end where he's trying to save face and she let's it slide given the circumstances but not without telling him that's the only pass he gets and if he tries it again, she'll knock his teeth out or some shit.
• (both hurt) Character trying to hold it together/2AM talk in the kitchen Ao3 tags: This prompt is much more general, but I just love the idea of them both being fucking miserable / overworked / having a goddamn terrible time for whatever reason, maybe there's extenuating personal problems for both of them outside of the usual stress of an intensely overworked MASH during a push, but they're both fraying at the edges/can't sleep/had nightmares/whatever and unexpectedly run into each other in the kitchen in the middle of the night and offer comfort to each other. Maybe some literal bed sharing and/or comfort sex - perhaps Margaret invites Hawkeye back to her tent - probably with the explicit intention of it not being sexual but both SFW/NSFW are good for this prompt. Either it stays just cuddling/holding each other until they fall asleep or it does mutually turn into comfort sex (don't want Hawkeye actually pressuring Margaret/no dubcon for this)

• All from general unless specifically requested in the Ao3 Sign Up
• Lasting pregnancy (see prompt re: abortion - pregnancy leading to that is fine, but I don't want it to end with Margaret still pregnant)
• Graphic Violence (outside of specified tags/what is canon-typical)
• Rape/Non-Con
• Major Character Death
• Underage Sex
• Bodily Fluids aside from blood
• AUs that change the setting
• A/B/O

• (hurt Hawkeye) Period of Adjustment episode tag/aftermath: This is not about villainizing BJ/woobifying Hawkeye to be clear, I've just always wanted something to come in the aftermath of Period of Adjustment because, while I understand what BJ was feeling in the episode/why he reacted to things in the way he did, it still always bothered me that he never apologized for knocking Hawkeye out/destroying the still/etc and then laughing at him/making fun of him for taking precautions afterwards. Like. It's fair to suggest that the helmet was potentially partially a joke, but I don't think it was fully a joke - the way Alan was playing it, he did look genuinely concerned/alarmed - and yeah, BJ was drunk, but even so. I'm glad that he gets the comfort he needed from Hawkeye in the episode, that's good! But I wish that once BJ had sobered up/calmed down, even the next day or however long after, that he'd apologized, and since we didn't see it happen in canon, I've always wanted to see it addressed in fic. Maybe Hawk has a black eye the next morning and BJ apologizes/touches it gently/there's some kind of physical affection whether kissing or platonic. Could be SFW or NSFW, either is good.
• (hurt Hawkeye) Trip to an Aid Station too close to the front for comfort in the mid/later season era: Could be an alternate take on Where There's a Will, There's a War where Hawkeye does get seriously injured, or an unrelated to canon occasion. But Basically Hakweye is sent to the front and gets seriously injured (would like it to be scary enough to be life threatening, but which - if he pulls through (and he does in the end) - doesn't get him discharged. Hawkeye shows up in a bus or on a helicopter as a patient at the 4077 (the aid station doesn't have time to send word to the 4077, so he just shows up by surprise) in seriously injured condition and everyone is freaked out/worried, but nobody more than BJ who insists on treating Hawk/doing the surgery he needs himself - whether or not that's a good idea or not based on his stress level/emotional distress over the whole thing is up to you. Mutual pining or established relationship. Happy ending for romance, happy or hopeful ending re: injuries ❤️ SFW or NSFW good for this prompt but probably depends on how severe the injuries 😅
• (hurt Hawkeye) Mutual Pining/Sharing a Bed for Comfort After a Nightmare: What it says on the tin. Hawkeye having nightmares and BJ either telling Hawkeye to pull up his cot or get into BJ's with him, or just getting up and getting into Hawkeye's cot with him to hold him/comfort him/sleep there with him. Bad jokes as distraction, Cuddling/nuzzling, running fingers through his hair/rubbing his back to help him fall asleep, kissing maybe. Could be established relationship or first time breaking the seal from pining to action kind of fic. Could be SFW or NSFW, either is good. If NSFW, definitely gentle/tender comfort sex.
• (both hurt) Homesickness/BJ missing Peg leads to offer of Casual sex that definitely isn't casual to either of them: Some angst with a happy ending here for sure. BJ is homesick/having a hard time being away from Peg (and, unbeknownst to Hawkeye, trying to internally reconcile his love for his wife with his steadily growing love/desire for Hawkeye), and Hawkeye casually offers (with the air of a joke for plausible deniability) to play at being BJ's wife/offers to blow him or give him a hand job or let BJ fuck him or whatever you want the offer to be. Could even offer to let BJ call him Peg, just to twist the knife a bit as the author - BJ maybe doesn't react to that super well, whether internally or externally, depending on your preference. And if he does end up calling Hawkeye Peg, either intentionally or by accident, Hawkeye probably doesn't take that well, either. Would also love if some kind of gender play for Hawkeye comes in here, either leaning into some flavor of gnc Hawkeye or just playing at feminization, but it's not required. Basically both mutual pining + a severe dose of fucking around leading to finding out/making stupid bets winning stupid prizes. But by the end, they've managed to communicate at least somewhat more clearly/be open about their feelings and offer comfort/love to each other. Hopeful ending. NSFW for this one, obviously. 😅
• (hurt Hawkeye) Out of Sight, Out of Mind episode tag: What it says on the tin basically. We don't see a lot of BJ actually being there for Hawkeye during the episode which I think was intentional/for Hawkeye to have his realization that he has, but a decent amount of time is implied to pass and I'd love to see some of what we don't get in the episode of BJ being there for Hawk as much as he can/helping him with things/things maybe getting to the point where their mutual pining can no longer be contained and the kettle boils over. NSFW could be very fun, I actually kind of like the idea of things boiling over and their first time together being when Hawkeye can't see BJ and is just focused on the feel/smell/etc of him. But SFW is also good!

• All from general unless specifically requested in the Ao3 Sign Up
• Graphic Violence (outside of specified tags/what is canon-typical)
• Rape/Non-Con
• Major Character Death
• Underage Sex
• Bodily Fluids aside from blood
• AUs that change the setting
• A/B/O
• Lavender Marriage for the Hunnicutts
• Gay BJ (Bi BJ is wonderful/strongly encouraged!)