#mash fic

Between "I'll never shake you" and GOODBYE, BJ tucks a "hello" into Hawkeye's pocket.

...

“Something to help you keep track of time,” BJ said.

“Keep track of—Beej, what? You’re giving me your watch?”

“Loaning,” BJ corrected, a grin growing beneath that war crime of a mustache. “I’ll take it back a year from now, when you come find me in Mill Valley to return it. With interest, of course.” He patted the pocket, grin fading to something earnest. “That way you know I mean it when I say we’ll see one another again.”

...

Faint rays of sunlight swam in the murky skies, a dying sunset fading into ephemeral twilight. With it, the stars and their endless luster peered through the evening veil, a familiar stillness settling in time. Amidst this comforting silence was a man sequestered, dwelling in his solitude. At this hour, Father Mulcahy was in his bed, skimming through the book in his lap.

It was an old Bible he used to carry, the size of it fitting into most of the pockets he owned. Although he had taken great care of the book, its condition showed its true age and wear. From the covering alone, one could see how its color had faded into an ashen shade, its bindings in complete tatters. At some point, a few of the pages had fallen out of the shell, rendering the New Testament incomplete. Despite this, Father Mulcahy considered this his most precious possession—a gift he had received from an old friend.

Along with the Bible came a bookmark. Unlike the book itself, this little sliver of paper and card-stock maintained its original color, gleaming with a peaceful yet vibrant shade of blue. Though, what made it special to the Father were the words written on it, words written in that same delicate hand in ink,

“The Lord directs the steps of the godly. He delights in every detail of our lives. Though they stumble, they will never fall, for the Lord holds them by the hand.”

- Psalm 37: 23-24

Underneath the dim glow of his lamp, Father Mulcahy sat still, reading those words again and again. Besides your choice of hymns, what captivated him most was the way you had written them. From the artistic curve of your letters to the hint of personality, he admired it all. With a careful hand, he closed the book and set it aside, flipping the switch of his lamp.

Yet, as the minutes spun into hours, the chaplain lay in his bed disturbed. As he tossed and turned, troubled with notions that disagreed with his piety, he found no semblance of respite—especially within his aching mind. This incessant hounding exhausted his conscience as it soon faded into the depths, memories he had long fought to suppress now resurfacing. It was as if he was caught in a sudden riptide, pulled into its merciless current until he inevitably sank. Still, he struggled and fought, flailing against the whims of his innermost desires.

Even as the temperature lowered to a comfortable chill, it felt as though his skin was ignited—ravaged by a heat with no comparable intensity. Underneath the linen sheets, Father began to sweat, his hands trembling at his sides. Temptation swallowed him whole, his mind turning into a feverish haze as his memories gnawed away at his resolve.

From the pleasure of your touch to the softness of your lips, it cultivated an unbearable want from deep within. Each imagined sensation stirred a yearning so incredibly sinful, consuming his flesh to the border of pain. Yet, Father Mulcahy resisted, barely fleeing from this latest bout of temptation.

Still, several of his days carried on with the same persistent problem, where he would lay awake at night suddenly ensnared by an unbearable urge.

However, the height of his plight only began when you arrived.

After reveille, it came as a surprise to the chaplain when he saw a jeep driving into camp, a pair of nurses sitting at the rear. At first, he thought nothing of it, assuming that they were transferring into the unit. He later made note to introduce himself to the women, hoping to gain another parishioner. Yet, as he turned to the direction of his tent, it was then he heard that laugh—a sweet yet sound that echoed in his mind.

For what felt like an eternity, Father Mulcahy remained still, debating on whether he should introduce himself. But, the way he had left you, after saying he was still planning for priesthood… the tears streaming down your cheeks, the pain in your voice as you called out to him, his train already departing—it pained him to remember.

Even now, he could still feel the slightest pang in his heart, an ounce of regret despite his love for his faith. But how he loved you, his little darling. You were the best thing to happen to him, a small-town girl falling for a passing missionary boy.

But the chance to see and talk to you again proved too much to pass, and so, he decided to introduce himself. 

…

For the better part of the day, Father Mulcahy remained in his tent. In some capacity, he still performed his duties as a chaplain: taking the occasional confession and offering guidance to those in need. Besides your arrival, he would have considered it another day at camp, spent in the comfort of his tent. As he planned out his evening, he thought it best to see you during dinner. Yet, with an hour left before chow, he heard a knock at his door.

“Come in!”

He called from inside, placing down the book he had in his hand. As he turned in his seat with a pleasant smile, about to say something in greeting, he saw you. His expression then faltered, shifting into quiet disbelief.

Both of you were evidently stunned, lost for words as you stared at the other. You could only watch as his steady hand removed his hat, placing it on the desk beside him. Still, his entire attention remained on you, pleasantly perplexed.

“Francis..”

You uttered, your voice softening at the name as a small smile crept to your lips. Despite a decade having passed, the sound of it was a familiar comfort, reminding you of the affection you still carried from years before.

Meanwhile, Father Mulcahy only stared. To him, he thought of your voice as a wondrous sound, marveling at how it soothed the pains in his heart. For so long had he yearned to hear you say his name again, to hear that voice say anything to him at all.

Then, he said your name in return, a sound so quiet yet reverent.

Without delay, you threw your arms around him, burying your face into his chest as you breathed. There was a sense of urgency in your actions, hands grasping and clawing at his back, fearing you would lose him again. The thought of it made your embrace tighten, not wanting to let go of him so soon—not when you haven’t seen or felt him in so long.

“I thought I would never see you again..”

There was a noticeable break in your voice as you spoke, unable to contain the rush of relief that swelled in you. Soon, you felt his arms encircle your waist, pulling your body close to his as he rested his chin on your head. Despite appearing collected, Father Mulcahy was anything but, for this is only the beginning of his unraveling.

“I prayed that we would..” …

As another peaceful night returned, Father Mulcahy found himself lying in his cot, his discipline strained. Like many times before, he awoke from a sudden pressure building in his core, stirring a carnal need he had no intention of fulfilling. Yet, as the minutes progressed into hours, his mind berated his already waning sanity.

Again, he turned on his side, his imagination threatening to consume him. Despite his efforts, he could hear your voice exalting in ecstasy—saying phrases he would never repeat in company. These fantasies only worsened as he memorized your touch, recalling the graze of your hand or the caress of your fingers. He now considered himself an utterly ruined man, one who wants and yearns.

In place of his devotion, what arose was desperation, fueled by a great corporeal need. Father Mulcahy knew that the human body could only endure abstinence for so long—and in his case, it’s been months—before he surrendered. Still, he was not about to be tempted, not when he had to face you in the morning.

Yet, as he remembered the scent of your lavender soap, flitting in the morning air, it led to an indulgent vision: his hands sliding across your wet skin, your hair clinging to your neck as the water poured over—a playful glint in your eyes as you tempted his hand lower.

That was enough to break Father Mulcahy.

…

The following morning…

After ten hours of rigorous work, you were about ready to drop on the nearest cot. The muscles in your legs were practically weak, aching with every step. Yet, you managed. As you made your way through camp, you thought of visiting Father Mulcahy, missing his company. With that, you pivoted to the direction of his tent, excitement brimming.

Once there, you happily knocked, waiting for his answer. It took him another beat to open the door and as he did, you saw a man in silent distress.

He was not himself that morning. From his disheveled appearance to his bothered conscience, you saw an expression you never thought the Father was capable of: guilt.

“Father, you alright?”

Instead of a greeting, you made your concern known. You noticed how his eyes had averted from your worried gaze, as if he was afraid you would see through his shame.

“I’m fine.”

Father Mulcahy hurriedly murmured, stepping aside so that you could enter. In his hand, you noticed his signature Panama hat, clasped almost too tightly at the brim. Instead of prying, you decided to take a seat on the edge of his cot.

Meanwhile, the man was anything but fine. For the last hour and a half, he was in constant prayer, kneeling on the floor and begging for the Lord’s forgiveness. What he had done in that cot, what he had envisioned and enjoyed—it was the unmaking of a man who lived by the cloth.

He stood still for a moment, keeping a respectful distance from you. Yet, despite himself, flashes of his fantasies began to resurface, testing his resolve.

“You look tired. Were you just at work?”

He asked in that same kind tone, trying his best to make polite conversation. Yet, as you sat on top of his linen sheets, the same ones where he came undone hours ago, he couldn’t help but shudder at the filth he had thought.

God Almighty…

“Yeah, my shift just ended. I thought I could lie down here and keep you company for a while. That okay with you, Father?”

“Oh! No, no! I don’t mind!”

You were surprised by the sudden burst of his reply, noticing a hint of nerves in the way he had reacted.

Yet, unbeknownst to you, the man was practically fraying at the seams—shedding every layer of discipline he had once earned. For the first time in his life as a priest, he was overwhelmed. He had experienced sensations he thought impossible, pleasures he would have considered fantastical. Yet, with the taste of carnality on his tongue, he developed a need—a demand for release.

Then, he looked away, setting his gaze on the door. His thoughts were becoming immoral, radical even. He was now acting against his own principles, and worse, his own vows.

Without needing an invitation, you decided to lie on his cot. At a glance, you noticed how his fingers fidgeted with his hat, flickering with the brim as he sat himself down. From his posture alone, you knew he was tense.

“You look like you need some rest too, Father. Come, lie down with me. We have enough space.”

Even with your delicate delivery, your words were more of a demand.

Before Father Mulcahy could object, you moved to the other side of the cot and gestured for him to come.

Without much of an argument, he decided to comply. Besides his own desire to join you, he learned many times before how difficult you were to reason with. So, he removed his glasses and boots, the cot dipping under his weight as he lay beside you.

“You know, if anyone were to see us, they would consider this improper.”

He reprimanded, though he kept his tone light. Despite his recent lapse, he was still a priest and he intended to maintain his vows, even if he was currently falling short on one.

“I hardly think you could be capable of anything improper, Father.”

You mused in a teasing lilt, turning your head on the side to see him. Though, before he could even make a retort, you cheekily added,

“Besides, if you wanted me, you would have never become a priest.”

A small snicker fell from your lips as you straightened your back. Yet, beside you, Father Mulcahy lay still.

It was a sentence that stung him deeply, both in truth and in slight offense. He knew what you were insinuating, how he had chosen his faith over you. Yet, it was not right for you to cast blame on his decision. He had explained this to you before, and sometimes, to himself.

Without thinking, Father Mulcahy muttered, unable to stop the words from forming in his mouth,

“I still want you.”

At his confession, silence fell, the weight of his words suffocating.

At the slightest tilt of your head, you caught a glimpse of the man, a broken expression written across his face. In his eyes, you saw his restraint beginning to fray, a tempest of emotion churning from within.

Then, with little distance to close, you moved to his side, pressing your head against his chest. You expected the man to make an excuse, a reason as to why you should keep a distance. Yet, he never said a word or pulled away.

So, you leaned in closer, faces an inch apart as he breathed against your skin. Gently, you brought your hand against the side of his face, cupping it as you brushed your lips against his. Softly, you tested him, wanting to see how far he was willing. Yet, before you could break this innocent kiss, you felt his arm circle around your waist, pulling you even closer.

As the kiss deepened, his other hand traveled down to your hip, resting his palm above it before squeezing. He was humming in delight, lost in a state of bliss as he tasted and savored you. With every rumble and hum he made, it traveled straight to your core, blossoming a heat that made you press your thighs. Your head was already spinning from excitement, your heart pounding in your ears.

Yet, reluctantly, you pulled away from the kiss, rasping,

“Fa-Father, I—“

“Don’t call me Father when I am about to sin.”

There was a sharp edge to his voice when he muttered, almost in warning. In that moment, he wanted nothing with his title, not to hear or be addressed by it. He only wanted to hear your voice say his name, again and again.

As he rested his forehead against yours, you saw a man torn between his desires and duties. Yet, with the taste of sin still fresh in his mind, you knew that the battle had been won.

“What now, Francis?”

“Kiss me again.”