S*L*A*S*H ‹ Works « Without-Feathers.com

You know, Frank, in this light you look just like Joan Crawford.
Hawkeye, “M*A*S*H”

SLASH

Fan Fiction

M*A*S*H

It was ironic, Hawkeye thought (gulping down another glassful of homemade moonshine), that Frank had two women and Hawkeye had none, and yet here was Hawkeye enjoying another evening of complete and blissful oblivion while Frank had not even a book to keep his mind off his problems. Hawkeye refilled his martini glass from the tangle of test tubes and straws at the foot of his bed, feeling quite fulfilled—nothing rounded out a long day like a thorough pickling and an unhappy Frank. He took another swig of bitter moonshine and grinned genially at nothing in particular.

Across the cramped tent, Frank shifted his legs irritably. “What the hell are you grinning at?” he demanded sulkily, arms crossed over his chest.

“You, handsome,” said Hawkeye, waggling his eyebrows. Frank snorted. Hawkeye gave him another cheeky grin. “Don’t scoff. You’re a very handsome fellow, handsome enough to secure the affections of our darling, treasured—oh wait, Margaret’s sore at you, isn’t she?” His teeth flashed white in the darkening tent.

“Stupid woman,” muttered Frank, half to himself. “How was I supposed to know she hates the color purple? I mean—” he sat upright on his narrow cot, addressing Hawkeye excitedly, “the robe cost over two hundred dollars! What woman would turn down a robe that expensive? I thought price mattered more than color!”

“Shows how much you know, bunghead.” Hawkeye let his empty glass dangle rakishly from his fingers. “Price and color are important. And size,” he added, shaking a finger didactically at his tentmate. “One size too large and the girl’s down your throat before you can say hic!” He dropped his glass onto his cot and giggled tipsily at the explosive hiccup. Frank rolled his eyes until the whites showed. “At least I’m not a drunk like you,” he muttered.

“The difference between you and me,” said Hawkeye, with an admirable attempt at solemnity, “is that I can walk down to the mess hall and come back with a girl on each arm, and you—” he picked up his martini glass and pointed it accusingly at Frank “—can’t even keep the girl you’ve got.”

“I haven’t lost her,” said Frank, looking doubtful nonetheless. “She’s just… she’ll want me back tomorrow,” he finished with forced nonchalance.

“Women,” said Hawkeye with a gusty sigh, letting himself fall backwards onto his cot and staring up at the ceiling of the tent. “Can’t live with ’em…”

“… Can’t live without ’em,” finished Frank moodily, his hands dangling limply between his knees. The tent was sadly silent for a few moments, then…

“Or can we?” Frank looked up from his gloomy contemplation of the cold dirt floor and into a pair of mischievous blue eyes. “Huh?” he inquired, not sure if he really wanted to know what Hawkeye was up to.

“I just had a thought…” Hawkeye stood up and half-fell onto Frank’s cot. “Maybe it’s the booze speaking... yeah, it’s definitely the booze speaking. But Frank, you really are a damn handsome man.”

“What the—” Frank scooted violently away. “My god, that moonshine must be even more potent than usual!”

“Probably is.” Hawkeye let his hand flop familiarly onto Frank’s knee, rendering the man momentarily incapable of speech. Maybe the drink was stronger than usual, or maybe he’d just been girl-free for too long, but Frank really did look good tonight. I’m under the influence already, thought Hawkeye, why not be under the host? He giggled as he slid towards his goggling prey…

Crossing from the showers to her own tent, Margaret paused in mid-step and narrowed her eyes suspiciously. Surely she hadn’t heard…? No, that wasn’t possible; Frank only made that sound when he… well. A familiar drunken cackle came from within the Swamp, and immediately her red flags dropped. If Hawkeye hadn’t been in there with him, she would almost have suspected Frank of something naughty.