The Officer's Club
Rating: T
Disclaimer: I don't own MASH... obviously.
Summary: Originally, this was just supposed to be a one-shot. If I get an idea for another chapter, I'll add to it. For now, it's just this. This is my first attempt to write anything for MASH, and I figured I'd start small. This is just Hawkeye and Margaret having a conversation one night. Not really HM. Just drabble. My main goal for this piece was to keep the characters in character.
Reviews are always welcome and appreciated!
The sun had long since set, leaving the 4077th MASH in darkness, except for the sporatic electric light. With the night came silence, quieting everything except the hospital and drenching the rest of the camp with an uncommon calm. This evening, most of the staff had been in either Pre-Op, the OR, or Post-Op until quite late. Now that the final casualty had been tended to, however, everyone had retreated to their tents to recharge for the day ahead.
Almost everyone.
Hawkeye really didn't expect anyone to be at the Officer's Club at this time of night. He himself was only here because he needed something to relieve the numbness a little, something to remind him that he was alive, and experience had taught him that a little alcohol was very beneficial in that capacity. It was nearing four o'clock in the morning, and most of the staff had been fortunate enough to get out of the OR by two o'clock. He, on the other hand, had needed to check in on a patient in Post-Op. Poor guy had a closed head wound and would probably never be the same- and he was only eighteen. The kid still had all his life before him, and now… well, Hawkeye knew it wouldn't be much of a life at all.
The doctor's realization that there were indeed people in the Officer's Club brought him abruptly out of his thoughts. "Klinger, Margaret." Hawkeye remarked, nodding in acknowledgement.
"Good evening, Pierce. Or is it early morning now? Eh, it doesn't matter." The major was obviously not on her first drink anymore.
"It's certainly dark enough for either." Hawkeye replied, through a yawn as he sat down on a stool next to her. "I'll have a martini, please."
"Dry, sir?" Klinger inquired groggily, reaching slowly for a bottle of gin.
"You say that like there's another option." The doctor said, drumming his fingers lightly on the table as if to remind himself they were still there. After marathon OR sessions like that one, he began to lose sense of where he stopped and the patient began. What did it really count for, anyway? They were all people, all made of the same stuff...
"Here you go, sir. If you don't mind, I gotta get out of these heals. I never remember to wear flats when I stay to work the bar."
"Go ahead Klinger, just leave the bottle and the olives." Hawkeye replied, taking a small sip of his martini. The sharp taste did its job perfectly: it shocked his taste buds (and later his liver) into remembering that they belonged to a healthy, conscious body.
The door swung shut as Klinger left, and as he took a second swig, Hawkeye saw a man's head cushioned by his folded arms, unconscious. The insignia on his hat labeled him a Major. "What's the matter with him?" Hawkeye asked, leaning forwards slowly to get a better look at the other doctor.
"Who, Frank?" Margaret asked, gulping her own drink.
"He drink too much?"
"No, not Frank. Fell asleep. Didn't even finish his first first drink." The Head Nurse answered, voice slurred only slightly. Hawkeye smiled slightly at her drunken state before returning his attention to his martini; a lesser man (or one that didn't know the Major when she was sober) perhaps would have taken advantage of the situation. Regardless, after his drink he would be too tired to do anything but collapse onto his own bunk. "You know, sometimes I think I need a real man, one who can really take his alcohol."
Hawkeye shifted his gaze from his drink back to her, slightly disconcerted at the expression of longing on her face now. "I don't think Frank would approve of us, Margaret darling."
"Not you, you pig-headed dolt. Just someone."
"Ah, someone. Of course." Hawkeye said, with exaggerated agreement in his voice. He took a deep sip, and sighed before speaking in a more serious tone. "I don't know how much more of this I can take."
"How much more of what?"
"War. Blood. Operating on kids who should be at the drive-in, not in combat." Hawkeye answered, gesturing about broadly before allowing his exhausted arm to drop back onto the table. "The usual."
"You know what your problem is, Pierce?" Margaret inquired, before downing the rest of her scotch.
"Aside from the things I just listed?"
"No, you have no goals." She pronounced this very confidently, as though she was certain that the problems of Benjamin Franklin Pierce could not possibly spring from any other source.
"Goals." He repeated flatly.
Margaret nodded. "Goals." She said, continuing to bob her head. "Professional goals. Goals for how you can better serve your country."
"My only goal is to make it home in one peace, as soon as I can." Hawkeye asserted, tracing the rim of his martini glass with two fingers. His other arm lay limp on the bar.
"You don't operate like that." She remarked, resting her elbows on the counter opposite of him.
"Like what?"
"Like are all you want is to go home." The Head Nurse paused. "Look, Pierce, that may be your goal outside of the OR, but once you step through those doors, the only thing on your mind is the patient." Hawkeye didn't say anything to this. "And that's not what I meant, anyway." Margaret insisted, standing and walking slowly behind the bar. She helped herself to a refill. "I can put up with all of this because I know one day, I'll be a Lieutenant-Colonel."
"Really? And here I was thinking you could stand this because you were born and raised in the Army, and you're tougher than the rest of us."
She ignored him. "Someday, I'll make Lieutenant-Colonel. And you know what happens then?"
"They let you salute twice as often?"
"Then I can get out of this war zone and get stationed somewhere where this Cold War isn't so hot. Maybe Seoul, or Tokyo, or even at a hospital back in the States." Margaret explained, eyes shining wildly; Hawkeye wasn't sure if this was more a result of her enthusiasm or the alcohol. "You need a goal."
"What do I need goals for Uncle Sam when he's already got one for me? He obviously wants me to operate on everyone in Korea, and I must say, I'm well on my way." Hawkeye quipped.
"You know, Hawkeye, I know we may fight like cats and dogs sometimes, but I respect the way you practice medicine. If you were just a little more professional, especially when the big brass come around, you'd be looking at a quick promotion." She paused again. "How would you like to be Major Pierce?" Margaret asked, drawing out the title.
"For one thing, I'd feel like a major idiot."
"It's not that bad. You get more respect, more responsibility, more pay. Other than that, it's be exactly the same."
"Margaret, I have never, not once, wanted a promotion less in my life." Hawkeye insisted, seriously.
Margaret slammed her hands down on the bar. "You're impossible, you know that?"
The captain was silent for a moment. She sipped her drink slowly, pausing every now and then to munch on a pretzle. "Maybe." Hawkeye admitted finally, breaking the silence. He stood up, and ambled over to where Frank was slumped against the counter. "I'm going to take Frank back to the Swamp. You going to be okay here on your own?"
Margaret shook her head. "I'm heading out anyway. I think I've had enough for now." She replied, stumbling out from behind the bar.
"Of course. We wouldn't want you to have too much to drink, now." Hawkeye quipped as she nearly ran into a chair. He slung one of Frank's arms over his shoulder and began to half carry, half drag the Major out of the Officer's Club. Margaret was right behind him, accidentally trodding on Frank's feet every couple steps.
Sooooo? What'd you think? Good? Bad? In between? Let me know!