Cold Comfort
by Swamp

"You think you want to play? So, tell me.....How far are you willing to go....?"

Hawkeye's hiccuping laugh fled his throat as the comradely arm shoved the breath from his chest. His shoulders slammed into the bleached grey wood of the wall. Even as the forearm held him hard, one thigh was bruising between his two, leaving him unable to move. Well, John McIntyre wasn't called Trapper for nothing, after all.

"You think it's all a good laugh, don't you?" Trapper growled into his ear. Hawkeye's nose twitched at the sour chemicals of the still and the rough smoke of the O-club caught in the silk sleeve. The low cinnamon of fading aftershave almost disguised the faint antiseptic sting of scrub soap. He closed his eyes in the face of his friend's bared teeth. The glare of desire and hatred.

"You think it's fun to make jokes. To slap me on my ass as we leave surgery, or tell those nurses in there that we'd keep each other warm instead."

He sensed Trapper shifting his weight, leaning in further with his bent leg so that it pressed against Hawkeye's groin. Trapper's head moved until his lips were against the curl of the ear, teeth catching on the hard ridge of flesh. "You still want to play, you little prick-teaser?"

Hawkeye wanted to swallow. Wanted to gulp enough to get his voice to steady as it said no. Treat it as another joke. Call Trapper's bluff, here in the dirty scrubby shrubs between the O-club and the dark masculine stink of the motor pool. Flutter his eyelashes and play the belle. He felt his cock twitch against Trapper's thigh, betraying him.

Trapper's breath dragged sharply at the air, catching in his throat and Hawkeye pulsed again. He felt hard teeth tug at his earlobe. Not a kiss. Nothing as tender as a kiss. Savage and reluctant. Trapper's free hand came up and brushed down Hawkeye's side, roughly sliding over the hated khaki. When it tugged insistently at the back of his thigh, Hawkeye felt his leg move forward into a heated embrace. There was a shuffling of stances, hips lifting to each other, and he felt an answering pulse against his own thigh.

Trapper pulled back a little, leaning away to release the arm that still pressed into Hawkeye's torso, and he hated the cold air for invading their grasping hold. Rough hands caught at both sides of his face. The fingers were long, the palms large. Opening his eyes, Hawkeye found Trapper was staring at him. His face was still hard, almost cruel.

His lips were rough and tasted of booze and pretzel salt. His mouth took advantage of the slight gasp by pushing Hawkeye's teeth apart. They rolled against the wall, legs inarticulately fighting for dominance and cocks leaping in unison. One hand slid down again, the other side this time, making Hawkeye's thin waist jump away from the touch and arch into the body in front of him. The hand grabbed his ass and pulled. Claiming it. Claiming him.

"D'you still want to play?" Trapper growled.

He could smell the greenness of the wood at his back, cut down before it was ready and forced into service. Going grey after a few short months. The stunted shrubs around them were unidentifiable, just the ghosts of young plants frost-bitten by the cold Korean wind. The only heat was this angry, passionate, sometimes violent stranger pinning him to the wall and biting at the exposed skin near his ear.

"I want to play," he whispered.


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