Title: Ten Percent
Author: MelWil
Rating: PG
Fandom: M*A*S*H
Disclaimer: Not mine, I make no money
Feedback: lina_wilson@hotmail.com Summary: She only wants small doses
~*~
Margaret Houlihan only wanted him in ten percent doses.
That was fine. Okay, even. Dandy. He could (would have to) live with that. As far as he was concerned it was nice to make the short list. Hell, she hadn't mentioned BJ or Charles at all. He was one of the elites.
He had no idea how much of her would go into his perfect woman.
He drank his scotch and watched her paw through the scrabble tiles, searching for some misplaced letter. It was impossible to say what he wanted from her, impossible to subject her to casual catagorisation. There were too many back stories, too many memories to many exceptions and acceptions.
He would have liked the see her in Klinger's dress. A pink dress, Klinger told him, fitted just so.
"How do you do it?" Margaret asked him once. "How do you know everything about everyone?"
"My good looks and charm," he smirked and handed her a martini (Swamp style). "Or just the result of being a high profile doctor who's been here too long. People will tell a doctor anything."
So he knew about the pink dress and he knew about her fight with Scully and he knew about the other things that went on behind the bland, khaki canvas.
And he knew he never stood a chance with Margaret while the war lasted.
"Found it," Margaret held up a tile. "I knew there was a 'c' in there somewhere."
"What are you spelling?" Hawkeye scanned the scrabble board.
"Peace." She filled the letters in.
He smiled. "Perfect."
Author: MelWil
Rating: PG
Fandom: M*A*S*H
Disclaimer: Not mine, I make no money
Feedback: lina_wilson@hotmail.com Summary: She only wants small doses
~*~
Margaret Houlihan only wanted him in ten percent doses.
That was fine. Okay, even. Dandy. He could (would have to) live with that. As far as he was concerned it was nice to make the short list. Hell, she hadn't mentioned BJ or Charles at all. He was one of the elites.
He had no idea how much of her would go into his perfect woman.
He drank his scotch and watched her paw through the scrabble tiles, searching for some misplaced letter. It was impossible to say what he wanted from her, impossible to subject her to casual catagorisation. There were too many back stories, too many memories to many exceptions and acceptions.
He would have liked the see her in Klinger's dress. A pink dress, Klinger told him, fitted just so.
"How do you do it?" Margaret asked him once. "How do you know everything about everyone?"
"My good looks and charm," he smirked and handed her a martini (Swamp style). "Or just the result of being a high profile doctor who's been here too long. People will tell a doctor anything."
So he knew about the pink dress and he knew about her fight with Scully and he knew about the other things that went on behind the bland, khaki canvas.
And he knew he never stood a chance with Margaret while the war lasted.
"Found it," Margaret held up a tile. "I knew there was a 'c' in there somewhere."
"What are you spelling?" Hawkeye scanned the scrabble board.
"Peace." She filled the letters in.
He smiled. "Perfect."