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jerksepticeye · 4 months

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If you’re still doing kiss roulette can I get hawkeye and Mulcahy ?

(Hello! Sorry these are getting done so late, but I am still working through them and loving every moment! You get! A kiss to the neck!

I really hope you enjoy!)

There is never necessarily a convenient time to search for something in the supply tent—if an item is requested, then it is always needed with incredible haste—but there's a certain frustration in having only the moonlight by which to comb through the shelves. Despite his quiet questions after if there was a spare lamp, which went ignored, and his decent memory of where they might be, which has failed him, Francis finds himself huffing a sigh as he slips past the door and lets it shut quietly behind him.

It's no one's fault, he reminds himself, that the power has been cut off from a faulty generator, and frankly he should be incredibly grateful that there are no wounded who need surgery right now. Radar has already sent for the part that's needed to fix the generator, and they have confirmation that it's on the way and should be here within the hour.

There too is another way to deliver light—through an act of service—and truly if the only way Francis can currently be of assistance is to find a fresh box of gauze in here and deliver it to post-op, then he'll do so with a grateful heart.

Though they might've sent someone without a preexisting vision condition, he thinks wryly.

"Well." He heaves a sigh, grips his crucifix. "If it be Your will, then perhaps You might illuminate my path."

Unsurprisingly, there is a faint pang of amusement in Francis's gut, one he doesn't associate with himself, necessarily, and he rolls his eyes. "Or maybe not," he murmurs back, but with a degree of fondness.

When Francis is alone like this, he finds it monumentally less difficult to find the divine threads interwoven with his veins. When he is leading a poorly-attended service, offering confession, or doing most any ceremonial task, it's difficult for him to own up to, but there's an element of the performative there, something which always plagues him. He'll know the right words to say, the right movements, and yet he'll be powerfully aware of the eyes on him and the calling he doesn't wish to fumble.

Tucked in a dark room with no one around but himself, Francis has fewer senses to distract him. He can interpret the emotions he feels with less uncertainty. He knows where he feels his own joy...and where he considers the mirth that he'll feel from, well, Him.

Things he can't really talk about with anyone else in this camp—and without many of his fellow practitioners either. Not without feeling their confusion, their concern, their judgment.

The longer you think about this, the longer those patients go without fresh bandages, he remembers, and with a deep breath and a hand held far in front of him, Francis begins feeling his way through the tent.

Due to the watchful eye of Major Houlihan, it's rare that the supply tent is rearranged in between shipments. If there's a large-scale shift needed, she supervises carefully, and after Francis gets through the initial hiccup, he inevitably finds his way around once again. But thankfully it's been quite some time since one of those, and he knows to trace along the cool metal of the shelf, all the way to the end, then let his fingertips hop to the next, and the next.

It's these shelves tucked near the back that hold his quest item, and Francis finally slows his progress to squint, do his best to discern one object from the next. He'd rather not experience the humiliation of bringing the wrong type of gauze nor the humility of needing to smile through his mistake as he returns to locate the correct one. But as he's halfway down the row, he catches sight of the nook at the rear. Pauses.

Behind him, a streak of moonlight cuts through the window, illuminates the mattress and rumpled blankets upon it. He can see the bare edge of a shiny plastic thing on the ground, and Francis blinks as he takes a step closer, pauses, then a few more. There's nothing to fear here. What this area symbolizes has no more power than a purple mark he'll see on a neck, a bra pinned to the bulletin board.

But when he kneels down and picks up the open item, he realizes it's an empty condom wrapper, and in a flare of shocked heat, he flicks it away.

A man of his age—and especially of his calling—should be less...less reactive to things like this. Not so flustered when he realizes what he's touched. But all he can suddenly think of is a man's nude body, painfully erect, his strong hand slowly rolling a condom down his hard penis, and suddenly he might as well be sunburned from head to toe.

Francis rises to his feet. Tugs his hat off and clutches it in his hands, right against his belly. He doesn't...it's not that he thinks that he'll need to...conceal anything, not when he's become such an expert over the years of redirecting his mind. In fact, now that he's staring holes through the tent wall, he can summon all of his focus to reject this part of himself. Tamp it down. Envision sitting within a frozen field of snow and ice, meditating, not a single soul for miles. There is only Francis, his Lord, and the lovely frigid walls rising up within him, and the clack of plastic—

The clack of plastic.

"There you are."

As arms wrap around his waist and yank him backward, a million things swim at once into dizzying focus—the hanger finally settling against the Supply Tent door, the syrupy masculine voice that could only belong to Hawkeye Pierce, the hungry and biting heat right on his throat. Francis lets out a sharp cry as he stiffens in place, hands flying down to push away the grip that holds him there, but...but then he bites and sucks and moans, and all at once, his knees give out completely.

"Been thinking about you all day."

If he was sunburned before, he's thrown straight into a bonfire now, where his ancestors used to toss women who were too independent, not to mention other sinners—

Hawkeye's groan is sugary sweet yet rich as licorice, the conflicting sensations sending Francis on a roller coaster as he throws his head back and finally drops his hat. This. This is what they warn about, the way that you'll be overtaken all at once, how a million devilish servants will pick you up and fly away with you and never let you find the ground beneath your feet again. You'll chase and chase and chase and chase, but there'll be no peace, only—

"C'mon, lemme hear you, huh? Gimme those pretty moans you've got." Hawkeye purrs right before he shifts to hot, wet kisses over Francis's sensitive skin, the kind that leave him sinking back into his grip, overwhelmed, somehow finding himself at the point of tears at the exquisiteness—no, no, at the...the...

It's only when a hand rushes up his body, under his green jacket, and over his chest that everything stops.

Francis whimpers, tips his head further.

Suddenly he's falling backwards, and Francis just barely manages to catch himself on a shelf, on the hand he throws behind him too. Like an awkward crab just recovering from escaping a boiling pot, he blinks, skitters slightly to flop onto his knees, then chances a nervous look up.

Hawkeye gapes at him, brows high, mouth hanging open, and when he starts shaking his head, there is no true way to articulate Francis's level of shame. He feels it so rarely. Only on the nights where he...lapses a bit. Where his hand might wander while he's alone in his cot, thinking of clever surgeon hands and mischievous smiles.

Right. Francis bows his head and clears his throat. I...yes, right.

"Jesus, Father, I—sorry. Sorry about that. About the Jesus. About the—" Hawkeye splutters for a moment longer, then holds out a hand. "You okay? You hurt?"

"Well, I..." Francis can't help but breathe a single chuckle, one that's tinged with a taste of his own bitterness. "Only on the neck, I believe."

"Shit. Sorry. I, uh..." As Hawkeye helps him to his feet, he's careful about it, his other hand coming to cup Francis's elbow to steady him as though Hawkeye was perhaps the one to push him. "I know it's not exactly the dead of winter or anything, but can I suggest a turtleneck?"

"I'll consider it. Though perhaps we can pass it off as a creative form of stigmata."

Hawkeye barks a shocked laugh, but it falls away just as fast, and Francis is left with his hand held, his throat sore, his neck cooling from...from Hawkeye's...saliva, where he'd bitten, where he'd marked him. Another flood of fire washes over him, but he doesn't feel as cleansed as the three who were thrown within Nebuchadnezzar's furnace.

There are words that need to be exchanged here, of course. The reminder that even if Hawkeye Pierce might think about Francis in this sort of way, it isn't permissible. That there's nothing Francis could ever give him that could make him happy. That—

The hanger clatters louder this time, and suddenly Nurse Madeline comes around the corner, tall and lovely and...blonde. That darling little pixie cut of hers.

The realization hits and makes Francis's blood run cold. Of course.

"Goodness, I seem to have...interrupted a medical discussion," Francis manages to say with a small smile.

"Don't worry, Father," Nurse Madeline murmurs with a smile. "I'll see you this weekend."

At confession, he realizes. Ah. His brows shoot up as he looks between them both, but all he can find is amusement on her face, something indecipherable on Hawkeye's. It isn't the first time that Francis has interrupted an interlude, just...just not...quite so preemptively. But while he'd expect Hawkeye to tease him about that, all he can see through the darkness is how the dark-haired man is refusing to look away.

Finally, Hawkeye seems to come back to himself. "Gauze, right?" He takes a quick step, leans, and snags a fresh box of it. "Here. Should be what Margaret's looking for."

"Oh, why...thank you." Francis reaches for it, but Hawk cups his knuckles and makes him gasp. Very carefully, Hawkeye makes sure that the box is tucked safely into his palm, then uses his own touch to wrap Francis's fingers around it.

He looks at Hawkeye one more time. And from this closer distance, he can more easily interpret the flecks of blue heat in his irises.

Francis clears his throat as he slips between them, making sure he brushes neither. "I'll be going then."

"Good night, Father," Hawkeye says softly behind him. Almost fondly, he might be tricked to say.

Francis hesitates at the end of the row, swallows the stone in his throat, then quickly makes his way out of the tent. To safety. To linger in disappointment, confusion, and incredibly fervent prayers.

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