Thinking
Author: Adenil
Description: Charles thinks of many things.
Inspired by Klinger's hands, next time you see him, check out his hands. They really are perfect.
Charles/Klinger
Rating: Sergeant
/////
It was at times like this, when Charles was lying on his cot wishing for sleep to take him blissfully away, when he allowed his mind to wander to happier things than war. He so often had trouble sleeping, but so long as his thoughts explored themselves he was all right. So long as he wondered about happy times, war and blood could not touch him.
He used to think about his home, Honoria, his Father, his Mother. He used to think of the Chauffer who gave him chocolate when he was eight and his Father wasn't looking. He used to think of his sprawling lawn sitting just so on the edge of wonder. He used to think of family dinners where there was class, but everyone still loved one another.
But he soon ran out of thoughts like that, and turned to other things.
Then he thought of his social standing. He flipped over old memories about his college days and the friends he made and didn't make. He examined each corner of every fact he ever learned about the human body, twice. He carefully opened and closed old dialogues with colleagues, staring at them, finishing them, and thinking of what he should have said but didn't. And then he closed those memories.
He had to search, then for something to think about, because he wasn't quiet ready to think about what he wanted to.
So he fell into the war, and his former position of authority. He thought of card games won and lost, and the one that made him lose it all. He thought of smiling faces and posh accents.
And then he couldn't think of things like that anymore.
So now he thinks of the daily toil that makes up a MASH. He goes through his day carefully, with a fine tooth comb picking out all the things that separate the good days from the bad. He throws away the bad, and ends up examining the good until they are nearly gone.
There is the obvious, sure. Good friends, good company, fine wine, but he has thought of all that until it is boring, and doesn't want to think of that anymore. Then he thinks of Klinger.
At first, he thinks, you wouldn't notice that Klinger has anything true and deep under all that surface tension. But he does. And Charles thinks about it.
The true measure of a man is in his hands, and Klingers' hands are perfect. Fine bones interlaced delicately under dark perfect skin, each joint fitted gently into the next without swelling, and short neat nails proving Klinger cares about who he is. As Charles thinks on his cot to himself he may even admit Max's hands are better than his own. Surgeons' hands.
Though Max will never be a surgeon.
And Charles thinks, and wonders, and imagines what those hands could do if the body behind them were willing. Would they sneak little touches in the hollow emptiness of the OR? Would they pass him something sweet and good in the form of a hand written note? Or would they just be, and have that be enough?
This is where Charles sinks ever so slightly into the haze of sleep, though he is not asleep. And he truly lets his mind be open.
Max would stop him, hold him, and draw one hand up along a shoulder blade, past the neck, to rest gently along the curve of his ear, one half-moon of a thumb nail pressing as a gentle reminder that Charles is being held. His other hand would grasp and arm so softly, so gently, and it would be enough.
Until thought was put into action, and Klinger would draw him close, dances of air between them erasing all questions to leave only answers and then hands would not be enough. Charles thinks, here, that only perfection will be enough.
And they breathe as one as slow motions draw lips together and all Charles can ever think of again is that this truly is perfection on earth. Better than posh accents, and sneaking chocolate, and saying the right thing. Because this, this pressure of hand and lip, is perfect.
Here Charles stops thinking, and drifts asleep.