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Things were going pretty swell. The weather's been nice, they haven't had too many casualties, and the fleas have fled.
And then there's nurse Evans.
Hawkeye is enamored, to say the least. Captivated, hung up on, beguiled, impassioned, charmed, infatuated. Evans is good-looking and clever, sharp as a whip. Funny, but importantly, not funnier than him. Single. Good in the OR, always knowing what he wants before he has to ask.
So: Hawkeye threw her a metaphorical line, and she gave him a tug. Behind the supply shed, leaving him messy and wanting more.
"Let's not make it serious though, yeah?" she said, after. "Just fun?"
Just fun. Hawkeye likes fun. Loves fun.
It really is like they were made for each other, in a way. They're near the same height. That doesn't bother Hawkeye like it does other guys. Why should it? They can lay down together end to end and move together, perfect fit, touching all the right places. But the best part are her long, perfect legs leading up to a perfect ass.
Over the last couple weeks he's become well acquainted with that perfect derrière — along with her perfect everything — so he'd know her backside anywhere. She's bent over a supply box, putting her best asset on display. She's on tippy toe, like a pin-up. It makes those army-green pants cling to her just right.
Irresistible, really.
Hawkeye beings his hand up, then down on the curviest part of her ass. It makes a satisfying sound, smack. It's firm, just like he knew it would be.
But instead of Evans turning around and giving him a playful pat in return, her body goes tense and stands up to her full height and oh that's not—
"What the hell are you doing, Pierce?"
The rest of the scene becomes clear with the haze of lust evaporated: Henry shouting at him and waving his arms, Trapper rushing towards him, Evans standing over by the mess tent along with a small crowd that has gathered at the commotion…
…and Frank Burns, beside him.
It feels like a bucket of cold water has been dumped over his head.
"You," Frank says. "You– you struck me!"
"Me? No, that was the wind." Yes, good. Play it off as a joke. Hawkeye says, "I saw, it whipped right into you."
Frank scowls at him. "Don't lie to me! I know it was you!" He looks Hawkeye up and down. "You'll regret this."
"What, you're gonna tell your wife?"
"I'll tell a court martial."
By now Margaret is at Frank's side, to tend to his wounded ego. Henry is there too, his hands on his hips, mad that they dared to have a conflict that he needs to do something about. And Trapper, who's covering his mouth but his eyes give away that he's laughing, the bastard.
Hawkeye's hand tingles.
"Look," he says. "I didn't mean it. I thought you were lieutenant Evans."
Frank scoffs. "Hogwash."
"Honest," Hawkeye says. "You were bent over and all I could see was your– you know, and you've got legs and–"
"He's got legs?" Trapper asks. "Arms too?"
"–and I don't know," Hawkeye continues, "the sun was in my eyes? I looked and saw and thought you– you looked like. Yeah."
"I mean…" Henry tilts his head to look at Frank, who quickly puts his arms by his side.
Frank opens his mouth to speak, but falters.
Margaret speaks for him. "Even so, what would possess you to think it's okay to accost a lady?"
"I…" Hawkeye stammers. Now that he's said it, he realizes that his excuse isn't any better justification. "Evans wouldn't mind. Right?"
He turns to address Evans directly.
She's not there. Left the scene of the crime. Smart girl.
"Have you been drinking?" Frank asks.
"No." Only a little. "Just drop it okay? I'm–" No, he can't bring himself to apologize. "It isn't serious."
"It is to me."
"Oh, c'mon, Frank," Henry says, interrupting. "Pierce didn't mean any harm. You know him, he's…" He waves his hand. "You gotta ignore him."
Hawkeye is not a fan of this advice. Ignore him? Who else is Henry telling this to? But it does make Frank huff and turn on his heel and stomp off without another word, so maybe there's something to Henry's methods. Margaret goes too, following behind Frank, but not before she tells Hawkeye this will all be going into a report.
Another report to add to his overflowing file. They never go anywhere. The Army has more important things to concern themselves than with petty complaints. Too bad, Hawkeye muses. He'd spank Frank again if it meant he got a discharge order.
"Hush." Henry shoves at his shoulder. "What were you thinking?"
"I wasn't," he says.
Casualties were flown in an hour later, so the gossip didn't travel very far. Hawkeye can't say he's thankful for the injured, but if they had to have patients either way, it was good timing for them to appear.
After, the next morning, he's scrubbing blood from under his fingernails. Evans — he takes a second glance to be certain it's her — joins him at the sink.
"Hey," Hawkeye says. He's too worn out to think of anything more charming to say.
"Hey." She lathers soap in her hands. "I thought we agreed to not make our thing into a thing."
"It's not a thing," Hawkeye says. "It's the opposite of a thing."
She gives him a pained look, disagreeing.
As if the day could get any worse.
He shuts the water off with his wrist. No need to be sterile now after the surgeries are done, but he does out of habit. He gives his hands one, two shakes, flinging water all over.
"So that's it?" he asks.
"Not necessarily," she says, and before he can get too excited she adds, "we'll see."
"Okay," Hawkeye says, knowing that means no. It's not like he's going to beg, and he (probably) deserves what is happening to him.
By the time he gets to the Swamp, Trapper and Frank are both asleep in their cots. Instead of wallowing in his misery, Hawkeye does the same. He is out before he can think of anything else.
Frank nearly drops his breakfast tray when Hawkeye walks by him, in an obvious attempt to turn his backside away from him. He's being ridiculous, but it embarrasses Hawkeye. He hates that. He's done much, much worse things to Frank, but the fact that it was accidental makes him want to crawl under a rock.
"Relax, Frank." Hawkeye moves past him into the chow line. "No need for a spanking because you've been a good boy today, yeah?"
The solution: embarrass Frank more.
"Shut up," Frank snaps. His face is turning red very quickly. "I knew you wanted to humiliate me."
Hawkeye gestures for a serving of Mystery Breakfast Slop to go on his plate. "That's right, Frank."
"But," Frank says, whining, "I thought you said it was an accident."
It's not going to be an accident when Hawkeye strangles him.
"What do you want me to say?" He goes towards a table, Frank following behind him. "That I made a mistake? That I did it on purpose?"
He sits at an empty table. Frank sits across from him.
"I don't think about you as much as you think I do," Hawkeye says, and there's a flicker of hurt across Frank's face but Hawkeye is tired and hungry and his fling is over and he needs a drink, so he goes on. "I think of you only when you're in my way or when you do something so incredibly stupid I can't ignore it. Or when I'm feeling down and I want to feel better about myself in comparison to you. I would never think about you at all if I didn't have to, and if we weren't forced together in this hellhole, I wouldn't know you and my life would be unaffected. You are not important to me at all. The truth is, I didn't know it was you. I didn't even consider it was you. I was thinking about getting my hands on Evans' cute butt and it happened to be you instead. That's all."
Frank turns pinker. He leans in, his voice deep, harsh. He asks,"You think I have a cute butt?"
"I didn't say that." Hawkeye didn't. That's all Frank got from that? "Shut up."
"You did," Frank says. "You said—"
"Have my breakfast." Hawkeye pushes his tray across the table. "I've lost my appetite."
"Pierce!"
The problem is not that Frank is a man.
That hasn't been a problem since he confessed it to his dad, sixteen years old, in the middle of the night, sobbing so hard he almost threw up.
I've already known, Ben, Daniel Pierce told him. It's alright. Just don't get into trouble about it, yeah?
And that's what Hawkeye has done. Don't ask a guy unless you know he's the same way. Don't take any risks. Deny, if you're asked.
The problem: that it is Frank. He's not even Hawkeye's type. He's a sucker for a guy who's fit but not too much, tall, light-eyed, kind of dumb… Oh, hell.
He never realized because he's so… Frank.
Hawkeye empties what's in the still. Tries to scrub his brain. But there's not enough liquor in the world to make him un-realize this realization.
He does his best to forget about the ass-slap incident. Evans forgets about it too, but she also forgets about him. Probably for the best. He was getting too attached. Too much of a good thing, and all.
He assumes Frank forgets about it as well. Things go back to normal between them. Bickering in the OR, tolerating each other in their shared living space. Mutual disrespect. It's familiar territory, and comforting.
Which is why he's caught off guard when Frank approaches him a week later when he's alone in the supply room.
"Why did you do it?"
Hawkeye looks up from the inventory list. He thought they weren't talking about it. He feigns ignorance. "Do what?"
Frank bites his lip. "You know." He waves his hand like he's swatting an imaginary fly.
Hawkeye sighs. "I've told you, I thought it was–"
"I know, I know. What I mean is…" Frank looks over to the closed door, then back to Hawkeye. "Why would you want to do that?"
No no no no no. He's not going to explain the intricacies of sexual foreplay with Frank Burns.
"Ask Margaret."
"I can't." Frank pulls up a stool, sits next to him. "Please tell me? Guy to guy?"
Hawkeye can't help but pity him. He does look rather pathetic when he's sincere.
"So, uh." Hawkeye sets the clipboard on the shelf. He crosses one leg over the other. "For some people, getting spanked is, uh, a turn on. You know, the physicality of it. Trusting the other person to do it to you."
Frank blinks at him. Hawkeye wants to look away. The pressure of his gaze is unnerving.
Hawkeye clears his throat. "It's a little naughty. Fun."
"I don't see how getting smacked around is fun," Frank says. "I got spanked all the time as a kid. It wasn't fun."
"What's this? Young Frank was a troublemaker?"
Frank shrugs. "My parents thought so. My father liked to use his belt on me. Or whatever else he could get his hands on to hit me with. My mother would spank me too, sometimes. Not as hard but…"
He looks off to the side, away.
Hawkeye can't say the same for himself. His dad's approach to discipline was sitting him down and telling him he was disappointed in his choices, and then they'd go out to get ice cream.
It explains a lot about Frank.
"When I got older," Frank says, talking, "I would count how many times my father hit me before I'd cry. I figured if I didn't cry he would think it wouldn't be a good punishment anymore."
"Did you cry?"
"Every time."
"I'm sorry," Hawkeye finds himself saying, "if me hitting you made you think of…" Your parents beating you? "Sorry."
He really is sorry. He's not so heartless that he's gonna be a jerk when Frank is being honest and sad and mostly reasonable. Is this the real Frank Burns, under all his… Frankness? Or is this an imposter version of Frank – the anti-Frank?
"It doesn't bother me, not really," Frank says, slow, like he's taken aback by the apology. "Not in the way you think."
Hawkeye shouldn't ask. He doesn't care. Just say okay, Frank, and then leave.
"Then how does it bother you?" he asks.
Frank does a half shrug, lifting his shoulder up. "I don't know. I just don't understand why someone could find it enjoyable to get smacked around. They must have something wrong with them. Be some kind of pervert."
"It doesn't mean there's something– wait." Wait. "Frank, did—"
"No."
"You don't know what I was going to say."
"I don't."
"I think you do."
"I don't."
"Frank."
"I don't."
"Frank," Hawkeye says, "what do you want?"
Frank is trembling. Like he's afraid.
"Don't hurt me too badly," Frank says. "Please?"
There's the brief thought of: maybe this is a bad idea. But then Frank unbuckles his belt and oh, okay. Yeah. Uh huh. Yep.
Their eyes meet as Frank pushes his pants down his thighs. After a second of hesitation, he shoves his boxers down too.
Hawkeye has seen Frank in all sorts of undress. There isn't much privacy in the Swamp, and not to mention the fact that they shower together. So, it's nothing Hawkeye hasn't seen before. But not like this: needy, expectant. He pushes the thought out of his mind that Frank checks another box in the list of his type.
"Turn around." The command is thick in Hawkeye's throat.
Frank listens. He leans forward, resting his arms on the shelf housing boxes of gloves. Bends over. Presenting.
He does have a nice ass. It's even better to look at when it's freed from those awful trousers. The apex where his leg meets his glutes makes Hawkeye want to touch. The dusting of dark hair on his cheeks makes him want to press his face there.
"If you're gonna chicken out, then just—"
Hawkeye strikes him, open-handed, swift, hard. It stops Frank's complaining in its tracks, overtaken by a gasp. The jolt is sharp in Hawkeye's hand, shoots up his arm, all the way to his shoulder.
He had thought that maybe, he'd enjoy the opportunity to work out some of his hostility towards Frank. Retribution for every annoying thing, every screw-up Frank has ever done.
He's not not enjoying it. A little odd. Do no harm doesn't apply when it's asked for, right?
Hawkeye hits him again, bringing his hand down in the same place, harder. The sound of his palm slapping Frank's bared skin is loud, sharp. Frank's breath is already coming up short. So is Hawkeye's, he realizes. His pulse is loud in his ears and he's getting hard, which is something he had desperately been trying to ignore.
He presses his hand to where Frank's skin has blossomed red.
"Is this what you wanted?"
Frank nods.
Hawkeye brings his hand up and then down, slapping him on his left cheek. Frank drops his head down, presses his face into his arm.
He waits for Frank to say something. Stop. More. You're hurting me. You degenerate. Hit me harder.
He doesn't.
Hawkeye strikes him again, on the softest part of his ass. Frank lets out a muffled gasp, his whole body tensing. Good, good. Hawkeye hits him again. His hand stings.
Briefly, he considers what this would look like if they were caught. They could stop now and not risk it but then they'd both have to walk out with very obvious boners as a definite, therefore: they should continue.
The thing is, Hawkeye hasn't ever done this before. Playful little slaps but not… whatever this is. If anything, he would want to be the one bent over getting a sore ass. But he's really getting into the motion now, full arm swings that make impact again, again. He doesn't give Frank a chance to recover, delivering multiple hits in a row. One, two. Frank's breath hitches and his back arches. Hawkeye strikes him again, lower, close to his thigh. Frank whimpers, tucks a louder noise away into his arm. Hawkeye hits him again, on his flank. Frank bucks his hips forward, then presses himself back. He may not say it, but his body is requesting more.
Hawkeye is a little dizzy. The room has become stifling warm, his hand is sore, and he is distractedly hard. He takes a peek. Frank is hard too, dick curled up towards his stomach. It's wet at the head, dripping.
Hawkeye swallows.
He runs his hand over Frank's ass. Frank tenses up, like he had been anticipating another strike. Hawkeye wonders if he's disappointed it wasn't. He will. He's just taking a moment. Appreciating. He touches Frank soft, slow. Caresses his hand over the curve of his ass, to the small of his back. Slips his hand under Frank's shirt, follows the path of his spine. The coccyx, sacrum, lumbar, thoracic, cervical. Feels the vertebra prominens, palpitates it. It's right where it's supposed to be. Frank is just like anyone else. Hawkeye drags his hand down his spine, feeling all twenty-four vertebrae.
Frank shivers. He must be sore. He's so pale, he's going to bruise for sure. He won't be able to bare himself to Margaret for a week.
Why is Hawkeye pleased about that? Why does he care?
He brings his hand down. The hardest yet. Frank makes such an awful, broken noise that Hawkeye would think he caused some damage if Frank didn't thrust his hips forward, seeking.
"Keep going," Frank says. His voice is deep, resonate.
"Say please."
Frank scoffs, but then he must realize Hawkeye means it. He looks over his shoulder at Hawkeye. "Please?"
That was too easy.
"Address me," Hawkeye says, on a wild idea, "by rank."
Frank turns back to face the shelf. Even his neck has turned pink.
Hawkeye waits. His chest feels tight.
"Please," Frank says, "Captain. Sir."
Hawkeye smacks him so hard his wrist hurts.
"Pierce, please– captain–"
Hawkeye pushes on Frank's back so he's pressed flat on the shelf, and his ass out, further. Boxes fall onto the floor. Hawkeye presses his boot between Frank's feet, makes him spread his stance. Frank does it all without resistance. He's breathing hard, ragged, his body heaving with the effort of it. It's loud, or maybe the noise is Hawkeye himself. Both of them. Together.
He moves his hand down, between Frank's legs. Frank whimpers. He ventures further, to his balls. Hawkeye rubs his finger at the place behind them. Presses.
"Pierce," Frank gasps, like he's been shot. "Please."
"See what happens when you obey?" Hawkeye says, "I knew you could be a good boy."
Who knew all it took for Frank to be cooperative was getting spanked so hard it made his dick wet?
Hawkeye presses his clothed erection against Frank. Rubs his dick, hot and aching in his pants, against that firm, perfect ass.
Frank draws in a sharp breath.
Hawkeye strikes him where it's reddest, feels Frank tremble and moan and go tense against his touch. Push down onto Hawkeye's finger that's firm against his taint.
He asks for more.
"Stand up," Hawkeye says.
Frank makes a wobbly noise. "Hm?"
"Get up."
Frank listens, turns around to face Hawkeye. He makes an attempt to cover himself but it doesn't do much to hide what he has going on down there. He's sweat through his shirt and his face is a mess, sweaty and flushed, eyes glassy. Has he been crying? How many strikes did it take? Had he been counting?
"Sit down." Hawkeye gestures to the stool. Frank trails his eyes over to it, frowns at it, but he complies, lowering himself slowly into the seat. His pants and boxers fall around his knees.
Hawkeye kneels in front of him. Frank watches him with a dazed expression but then his eyes go wide.
"Oh! You don't have to, it'll go away–"
"Shut up, Frank."
This is more familiar. A thick weight on his tongue, mouth stretched. Some say it's an act of submission, but Hawkeye doesn't see it that way. Having the most sensitive and delicate place a breaths away from teeth and making a person beg for more gives him the control. Hawkeye loves it. He knows he looks good like this. He's had only good reviews. Giving head is his super power: his mouth on anyone can turn them into a desperate, leaking, begging-for-it mess.
Even Frank Burns.
"You doing okay?" Hawkeye asks, between licks. Sure, he's being a bit of a tease but he's kind of worried about the guy.
Frank makes a strangled noise. He's covering his face with both hands. Hawkeye is pretty sure he's crying.
"Frank?"
He peeks between his fingers. "I'm okay."
It doesn't sound too convincing.
Hawkeye wraps his hand around Frank, dips his head down, down. Takes him in, in. Saliva spills onto his chin, runs down his throat. He closes his eyes, his mouth full.
He's never given a damn what Frank thinks, but what he would give to know right now.
Frank makes a fractured needy sound and he grips Hawkeye's shoulder, just on the edge of too tight. Hawkeye sucks him harder, better. He's close. Hawkeye can taste it. Hawkeye is getting there too and he hasn't even touched himself. Too distracted. He grips himself through his pants for some relief but he can't stop, rubbing harder, more, more.
Frank doesn't warn him when he comes. Hawkeye rears back in surprise when it floods his mouth. It tastes not great, like any guy on the army's meal plan but Hawkeye swallows it like a good boy.
He sits back on his heels, dizzy with want. He gets his pants open and takes himself out and jerks himself off, quick. Too dry. He licks his hand, wrist to fingertips. He tastes like sweat and well, another guy.
"Wow," Frank says, and Hawkeye isn't sure if that's a good wow or a bad wow but it's so dumb and it's so Frank that he can't ignore who is here with him, whose taste is in his mouth, and why his wrist aches.
When he comes, he has enough awareness about himself to notice Frank leaning in, closer. Looking. Interested.
Then, Hawkeye does the dumbest thing: he goes to kiss Frank. He blames the orgasm.
Frank goes lax into it, makes a soft noise when Hawkeye licks into his mouth. It's nicer than it has any right to be. But it lasts for only a second — Frank jolts back, away, tumbling backward off the stool and falling onto the floor.
Nope. Nuh-uh. Hawkeye stands, wipes his hand on his jacket, tucks himself away. What was he thinking?
"Sorry!" Frank scrambles to sit upright. He's tangled in his pants around his ankles, and is struggling. "I wasn't expecting you to do that."
Hawkeye laughs. Beat the tar out of a guy and give him a blowie, and that's fine. But a kiss? Too far.
"Never mind," Hawkeye says. "It was a mistake."
"Mistake!" Frank manages to get up, pulls his shorts and pants over his ass (wincing, Hawkeye notices) and fastens them. "That's what you always say!"
"Stop shouting, someone's gonna hear–"
"You kissed me before and didn't mean it."
What? Hawkeye thinks, then: oh yeah.
Admittedly, he did take the joke too far. It felt like a funny idea at the time. Swoop Frank into his arms for a dramatic embrace, give him a little smooch. It was just a brush of his lips at the corner of Frank's. It was worth it. He would do anything to make Frank squirm.
"That was nothing," Hawkeye says. "I didn't even slip you any tongue."
"You did it on purpose," Frank says, "to make me want more from you."
Wait.
"Wait, have you– have you been thinking about that? That was months ago–"
"Get out."
"I was here first."
"Get out!"
"Fine!" Hawkeye shouts, yelling back — Frank flinches and that makes Hawkeye feel like absolute garbage, which makes him mad as hell.
He slams the door when he leaves. He doesn't care if he hears Frank start crying again, and he doesn't care if tomorrow Frank doesn't sit at lunch. He doesn't care that he gets sick later, and he lets Trapper think he'd been drinking. He doesn't care that Frank will act like it never happened.
Some things can never change.