It'd been one hell of a day. The now over wave of casualties hadn't been large by anyone's standards, but nothing killed a mood quite like having two guys in a row die on your table. Hawkeye and what was left of his soul trudged over to the Officer's Club. What he needed was hard liquor. Hard liquor, and maybe a nurse.

Once inside he surveys his options and decides on just the liquor. The only nurse in sight is Margaret and, though tangling with her might be fun, she's never been a realistic option for what he's after tonight. She's nursing a scotch. She'd been assisting him in the OR, and for all her regular army act, he knows she's feeling it: the waste human life, that crushing futility of war.

He walks over sidles up to her, "Evening, Major, how would you like to accompany me back to your tent so that we can get to know each other without clothes on?"

She narrows her eyes, "Ugh!"

"Ugh!" he mocks back at her.

"Get lost, Pierce."

"Yes, mother."

He wanders lazily over to the bar wearing his pretend smile as a mask, he oozes insincerity.

"Barkeep! I'll have the driest martini known to mankind, and another one of whatever she's drinking for the lady Major."

She looks over at him, unimpressed. This is exactly what he wants. He may not be able to find an easily available bedmate, but he can at least have a little bit of fun driving her crazy.

He smiles his mocking smile and gives her a little wave. She huffs and looks in the opposite direction. He doesn't push her any further, though. He places the drink on her table with a flourish and goes to sit somewhere on the opposite side of the room. He smirks when a small frown creases her forehead.

He's a few more drinks down when he turns his attention to her again. She stumbles slightly as she gets up to go to the bar. When she returns to her table he decides to make his next move. He goes and sits down at her table.

"What do you want?" It's not a question, it's a demand issued with all the drunken composure she can muster, her voice is nasal.

"To sit with you for a while"

"Why don't you go bother someone else?"

"Well all the other nurses are in their tent having hot cocoa before bed or whatever it is they do, and the enlisted men aren't really my type."

"How lucky for me."

Some of the other nurses enter the club and make a beeline for the jukebox. Music fills the air.

He sets his charm level to "over the top" and holds out his arm to her, "May I have this dance, Major?"

She huffs, "Fine, as long as after that you leave me alone!"

He leads her to the dance floor and he starts leading her around it, their step is loose and clumsy. He pulls her in close, pressing the full length of her body against his, waiting for her to snap at him.

He's looking for any kind of release, even if only by way of a decent shouting match with the very outside, virtually nonexistent chance of a night in bed with the fabled Hot Lips.

When he looks down at her her eyes are glinting with mild rebuke, but she's not entirely displeased, they hold a challenge. He grins at her; a challenge? He can be a challenge. He slyly moves the arm he has around her waist down so that he's caressing her buttocks and gives each of them a squeeze for good measure.

Still nothing. But whatever this new game is, he's enjoying himself.

What he was not counting on, though, was her retaliating. He yelps when her tongue makes contact with his neck. The dance floor is thrown into chaos as they screech to a halt, and others become more interested in trying to figure out what on earth is going on.

Not to be outdone he puts his hands on either side of her face and mashes his open mouth against hers. Her tongue is in his mouth in a heartbeat, and whatever the game has been, they've both lost. Each of them are fuel, and the other a match.

Their surroundings and location are temporarily forgotten. All other occupants of the club are completely still, watching these two officers who've lost their minds.

A one of the nurses gasps and another giggles as Hawkeye starts openly pawing at Margaret's breast.

Trapper chooses this moment to poke his head in the club door, "Hey, has anyone seen H...oh." He catches sight of his otherwise occupied friend and takes in the increasingly mortified faces of those around them at the rapidly escalating levels of inappropriateness.

"Hey, Hawk…"

He reluctantly stops kissing Margaret, "Not now, Trap, I'm busy"

"I can see that. Maybe you should think about taking your busy somewhere else, and by somewhere else I mean not The Swamp."

Hawkeye grunts something unintelligible, his mouth having made contact with Margaret's again.

Trapper shrugs and leaves again, running into Henry on the other side of the door.

"I wouldn't go in there if I were you."

"And why not?"

"Hawk and Hot Lips are in there getting a little carried away with practicing mouth to mouth resuscitation."

"Pierce and Houlihan,are you kidding me?"

"They go by those names, too."

Henry peers around the door to take a look, "Wow, they really are going at it, how did that happen?"

"Don't ask me, I just got here."

"Where's Frank?"

"Post Op. Wait 'til he finds out."

They eventually make it to her tent, though barely. It had taken a lot of willpower not to just throw her back onto a table in the Officer's Club and, If her panting was anything to go by, she probably would have gone for it. Every horizontal surface on their way back had been a temptation, hell, even some of the vertical ones. They're like a pair of horny teenagers, not a pair of thirty-something medical professionals.

They stumble into her tent and she switches on her lamp. Articles of clothing start hitting the floor before her door has had the chance to slam shut.

Naked, they tumble onto her bed, sending the cushions flying. All their frustrations, grief, pain, lust, and every shred of attraction they've ever felt for one another flows between them as they work out their tension. The past and present no longer exist, just the burning release through each other's bodies and the blissful numb of being drunk.

Their coupling is loud and intense, just like any other interaction between them that's ever involved any kind of passion. The whole camp can probably hear them. Soon spent, they collapse into a sticky, tangled mess of limbs. Neither of them speak, because speaking would mean asking questions neither of them want to think about the answer to. He should leave, he knows. Leave before he gets yelled out of here, or slink away into the darkness before any of this feels too much like reality, but his biology has other ideas, and before that plan can get any further he's out cold.