Work Text:
Trapper had always been quiet, at least compared to Hawkeye. He stood back, prepped his punchlines for him, and knew exactly when and how to say a single line that would most effectively devastate Frank rather than Hawkeye's scattershot strategy.
He was even quieter, after the war. There had been a few rare days in the Swamp where he didn't want to talk, but he was easily coaxed out of those moods with a handful of terrible jokes and the promise of a supply shed dalliance. He was not so easily coaxed in their shared rowhouse in Boston. Though they were few and far between, the days where Trapper wouldn't come out of bed at all—wouldn't even talk—frightened Hawk badly.
So he proposed a solution he'd heard through the Californian grapevine. A simple, black leather collar, adorned with a jingling tag that read Trapper's name. He didn't have to talk with the collar on. He didn't have to do anything other than be Hawkeye's good boy.
Trap had called him a moron. Then he'd separated the tag from the collar, stuffed the collar in the back of the closet, and dumped the tag in the back of his nightstand. Then he'd somehow managed to read angrily for the rest of the night, occasionally muttering under his breath that he wasn't a fucking dog while he adjusted his glasses.
A month later, Hawkeye came home from work to find Trapper miserably draped over the couch, collar retagged and tucked halfway under the neck of his sweater.
Hawkeye sat down beside him and patiently waited while Trapper shimmied to put his head in his lap. "Rough day?"
Trapper shrugged.
"Don't want to talk about it?"
Another shrug. Trapper sighed and buried his face in Hawkeye's thigh with a groan. He was clearly trying; his fists were clenched and the muscles of his neck were tight even though he couldn't force any words past his lips.
"Hey, it's okay. I can do the talking for both of us." Hawkeye gently set his hand in Trapper's curls, unsure if he'd accept the gesture. Trap turned his head up just enough to nuzzle into his hand, hazel eyes sparkling with something between exhaustion and appreciation.
They didn't need to talk. Pranks had been planned, plans had been made, and maids had been pranked all without the exchange of a single word more than once in the past. Hawkeye could piece together that Trap needed this, in some way; he wouldn't have dignified the collar if he thought he had any other option to ask for this.
Hawkeye stretched awkwardly to pull the ottoman closer, stretched out on the couched, and sighed contentedly. "Would my wonderful service dog care to turn on the television for a special treat?"
Trapper narrowed his eyes, growled playfully, and bit Hawkeye's finger.