The Hour of Our Little Death [FIC]

Originally posted to Archive of Our Own on March 4th, 2026, posting here for someone who asked if there was a way to read it while Ao3 is down this month. Will get some of my other fics up too, if there are any others you'd like access to specifically, please let me know and I'll prioritize them!

Title: The Hour of Our Little Death
Fandom: M*A*S*H
Ship: Hawkahy (Hawkeye Pierce/Father Francis Mulcahy)
Word Count: 9,173
Rating: M

Summary:

"Hello, all!" [Francis] said cheerfully, and looked around—it seemed that taking his trip to brush his teeth beforehand had made him the last to arrive. "Where should I sleep?"

"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.

A freezing night and yet another fuel shortage means another night of huddling up in the Swamp.

✶ ─ ✶ ─ ✶

It was another freezing winter night in Korea, and once again, Francis and his fellow officers (and Klinger and Radar, of course) were piling up in the Swamp. There was hardly any floor space to be seen, cots stuffed into every space that could fit them, with the still rising up in the middle. It felt, to Francis as he entered the Swamp, as if it was set in a place of worship, like the altar of an atheist.

He almost smiled at the idea, knowing Hawkeye wouldn't appreciate it—'not believing' in Atheism, and all that. Francis often found himself wondering if Hawkeye believed in anything—if Atheist wasn't really the most apt descriptor of his friend. But no. Hawkeye did believe in something. Despite all the evidence that might prove to the contrary, Hawkeye believed in people. Despite every cruel and horrific injustice that came through this terrible place, and Hawkeye almost always being subjected to witnessing and trying to fix the absolute worst of it… No matter how often Hawkeye's faith was tested, no matter how many times he faltered, he always amazed Francis in his ability to overcome and still move forward with hope, and with the belief that humanity is, at its very core, good. That human life, more than anything else, is sacred. He didn't think Hawkeye would appreciate hearing it but, to Francis, Hawkeye was more Christ-like than most Christians he had ever known.

He shook away the near blasphemous train of thought as he quickly shut the door behind him, the freezing cold wind blowing in behind him until the moment the door clattered to a close and he waved to the crowd that awaited him.

Read more...

"Hello, all!" he said cheerfully, and looked around—it seemed that taking his trip to brush his teeth beforehand had made him the last to arrive. "Where should I sleep?"

There was a small round of exhausted, if friendly, grumbles of greeting in response before Hawkeye's voice piped up over the others.

"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.

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Thank you so much for reading!