Title: Unshockable
Author: Am-Chau Yarkona
Pairing: Trapper/Hawkeye
Summary: The Swamprats make a bet. Written in part to explain the reference in my fic "Various Versions" to "that one time when we just wanted to shock Frank".
Disclaimer: These characters do not belong to me.
Rating: NC-17 (sex)
Author's notes: Thanks to all the people who read and commented-- you all deserve chocolate Hawkeyes, or some such. Also thanks to everyone on the list who encourages Random Frank-- the ending wouldn't be same without you.


“More nudie magazines?” Frank spluttered. “That’s… that’s disgusting, Pierce. You’re a pervert.”

“Don’t you ever get tired of being shocked, Frank? I mean, if you just got used to us, life would be so much easier.”

“A lot you know about it, MacIntrye. I’m not shocked.”

“You’re not?”

“No, I’m not. I’m a man of the US army. I’m unshockable.”

Trapper looked at Hawkeye; and Hawkeye, predictably, returned the glance with just a little added smirk. Frank hid behind his newspaper, pretending that he wasn’t even a little afraid of what he’d just set in motion.

“You mean,” said Hawkeye, carefully, logically, laying out the groundwork, “that whatever we do, we won’t be able to shock you?”

“I told you, I’m unshockable.”

“So what’s all this with promising Colonel Blake you were going to report all the shocking things we do to him?”

They had him there. “Well, what I meant, what I meant was…”

“If you’re unshockable, you won’t be reporting anything, will you? That’s the test. If you can’t be shocked, don’t report us.” Hawkeye moved to sit on Frank’s cot, just behind him.

“I can’t promise that! It’s my duty to report things.”

“Your duty to be shocked?” Trapper asked.


“I bet we can shock you.”

“I bet you can’t.”

“Ten bucks says we can.”

“I’ll take you up on that.”

“Alright. Let’s give it five days. If you’re so shocked that you report us to Henry between now and Monday, we’ve won. Okay?”

Frank knew he was being duped, but Hawkeye didn’t give him time to think about what Trapper had proposed. “Okay, Frank? Or are we shocking you already with the sinful betting we do?”

“Not at all! Okay.”

* * *

Over the next couple of days, Hawkeye and Trapper worked on extending the range of their shocking activities. It turned out the be quite easy: being sure that only Frank would catch them was the hard part.

Hawkeye left the nudie magazines on Frank’s cot.

Frank calmly burnt them.

Trapper masturbated, loudly, at night.

Hawkeye did the same (although that wasn’t in the original plan).

Frank snored more loudly than usual.

Trapper kissed Hawkeye goodnight: first after lights out, and the next night, before.

Frank gritted his teeth and read 2 Corinthians.

They let him discover them in the supply tent—but Frank remained outwardly stoic, collected the spare bandage he had come for apparently unshocked, and Henry remained uninformed. Something drastic was clearly called for.

“We’re going to have to go the whole way, Hawkeye.”

“I don’t know, Trap. What if he reports us?”

“He’s not going to. He’s too miserly.” Trapper’s blue eyes, his wide grin, made the idea tempting, but Hawkeye still had doubts.

“So there’s no point, is there? We’re going to lose the bet anyway!”

“That’s not the point.” Trapper’s hand on Hawkeye’s shoulder. “The point is to shock him, have some fun ourselves, and get away with it.”

“I’m not sure about this, Trapper. Kissing is one thing—Henry could ignore that. Actual sex? What if he gets shocked and decides to report before we’re finished?”

“You don’t trust me, do you, Hawkeye? I’m hurt.” Matching the action—though it was clearly an act—to the words, Trapper turned away, back to lighting the stove.


“Let me finish. You don’t want to trust me, that’s okay. I’m pretty untrustworthy. But you not wanting to have sex with me—whatever the situation—that’s a) something I don’t tolerate and b) making me wonder if you’re coming down with something.” This last was accompanied by a grin that made Hawkeye nearly kiss it there and then, and possibly let kissing go on into something better, no matter what the danger.

“Alright, Trap. The plan has sex in. How can I argue?”

* * *

When Frank returned to the Swamp that night after leaving Hotlip’s tent, he found Trapper and Hawkeye sitting on Trapper’s cot, both mildly drunk.

“Good evening, Frank. Can we offer you a drink?”

“No thanks. I don’t want to touch your poisonous stuff.”

“All the more for us, then.”

“Sleep well, Frank.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Frank said, and rolled his eyes as he got ready for bed.

As he sat there on the side of the cot, only pretending not to watch them, Trapper judged the moment to be right. He leaned a little sideways into Hawkeye, and they kissed. It was a passionate kiss; a measured kiss; but most of all, a kiss in which both participants were listening eagerly for any sound from Frank.

Thump. Thump. Two army boots hitting Korea from a lofty eight inches.

Hawkeye took a deep breath and let Trapper close in again.

The swish of material. A couple of wooden protests as the cot creaked under Frank’s weight.

This time, Trapper broke it briefly for a quick swig of air, and then they were away again.

A few pages turning, the thin paper of a Bible.

Stage Two seemed to be in order, so Trapper started working his hands into Hawkeye’s clothing, layered against the Korean winter.

The click of Frank’s bedside lamp going out.

Hawkeye, half on auto-pilot, reached for the other switch, only to be stopped by Trapper’s hand—not reaching out for his, but finding something altogether more interesting and rather lower down.

Now Frank was listening, to a zipper opening, to the cot creaking louder than his ever had, and to heavy breathing turning into soft moans.

Another zipper, more creaking; then…


“Why’ve you stopped, Trapper?”

“I’m an idiot. Know what I forgot?”

This time, the groan wasn’t of pleasure. Something in Frank stirred—here was a chance to prove his unshockability.

Rolling out of bed, he wrapped his dressing gown around him and, without looking at the two in Trapper’s cot, walked over to Hawkeye’s pile of ‘interesting things’. It took his a couple of seconds to root through the dirty socks and equally dirty magazines, but he found what he was after.

“Is this what you wanted, MacIntrye?”

From his vantage point atop Hawkeye, Trapper looked at Frank and Frank returned the glance with a passable imitation of a smirk. The small white pot in Frank’s hand was indeed what Trapper wanted; and by the way Hawkeye was starting to mutter, it would be a good plan to get it. Quickly.

“Yes, Frank. Pass it to me, please?”

Pursing his lips and storing up every moment to recount later (to Henry, for revenge, and to Hotlips, for… other reasons), when he’d won the bet, Frank obliged and headed back to his own cot—remembering, on the way, to pick up that most useful of army supplies: a pair of earplugs.

If he didn't put them in his ears, there was no reason for anyone to know that. And besides, facts made for a full report. Listening wasn't wrong, or dirty. It was his duty.