A/N: Oh my gosh, you guys are outstanding. Such kind reviews, even though I raked Charles over the coals again! Mille grazie! You certainly are very forgiving. You don't know how much it means to me that you're enjoying my story even a tenth as much as I'm enjoying writing it. I guess it's pretty obvious that I love M*A*S*H and its characters to death. I'd hate to think I was getting any of their personalities wrong. So far you seem to think I'm doing a satisfactory job, but if I start to become lax in that area, don't hesitate to tell me. Seriously. I'm not kidding.
And now, enough of my blathering. On to Chapter Six. But first!
Disclaimer: Everyone knows I don't own M*A*S*H. This is a mere formality, so I don't get sued. But somehow I suspect its creators have better things to do.
The Wind and the Rain
Chapter Six: A Rather Serious Faux Pas
Standing in line for breakfast in the mess tent was a little like Russian roulette. It was a potentially dangerous enterprise. Most of the time, the food looked deceptively innocuous, and there was no way of knowing what was harmless and what would prove detrimental to your digestive system until you put it in your mouth.
Of course, Hawkeye Pierce subscribed to the old Smell-and-Tell method, but it wasn't always a reliable test. Not to mention, he usually got exasperated looks from his fellow officers whenever he lifted his tray to his nose for inspection. Not that he cared.
On this particular morning, the aroma wafting from the buffet line brought to mind an unappealing amalgam of stale popcorn, rotten cabbage, and motor oil. Hawkeye sighed forlornly, remembering the breakfasts he had had delivered to his room every morning in Seoul. Those luscious, fluffy eggs, that crispy bacon, those golden hash browns... The very memory made him slaver at the mouth all over again.
He picked up his toast and hit it against the side of his tray with a loud crack! As far as homecomings went, he wasn't impressed.
Everyone else, on the other hand, seemed to Hawkeye to be having an annoyingly good day. Particularly the man standing directly behind him in the food line.
"What a day it has been, what a rare mood I'm in," Klinger sang rapturously as he stood in line beside him in his tattered fur coat, "why, it's almost like being in love..."
"Boy, I wish you weren't so gloomy all the time," Hawkeye said as a quivering, gelatinous mass of rehydrated eggs were deposited on his tray. Suddenly he yelped as the corporal elbowed him mischievously in the ribs. "What in the hell is going on with you, Klinger? Has somebody been tinkering with your thyroid?"
"Captain, today is a red-letter day," the Lebanese announced with a beatific smile. "And since I like you, I'm gonna let you in on my little secret."
Absently, Hawkeye picked a piece of lint off the man's fur coat. "You finally got your Section Eight?"
"God, no! You think I'd be keeping something like that a secret?" Klinger said incredulously. "I'd be holding a toilet-paper-tape parade!"
"Then what?"
The corporal beckoned, and Hawkeye leaned in close to him. "An angel has come to earth," he whispered confidingly, "and she's stationed in this camp."
"Oh yeah?" Hawkeye paused in his diversion of wiggling his eggs back and forth on his tray and looked around the mess tent, his interest piqued. "Don't tell me we got another new nurse while I was gone."
Klinger shook his head. "No, no, nothing like that," he replied as they drifted over to the nearest table and sat down. "She's been here for a while, only I never really noticed her much until now. To think," he added wonderingly, "she's been right under my nose this whole time."
"I don't blame her. It's a good place to hide." Hawkeye took a sip of his coffee and winced. "Well, who is it? Out with it already. If I had any life left in me, the suspense would be killing it."
At that moment the door of the mess tent swung open on its decaying hinges, and Lieutenant Malone stumbled in out of the cold, clutching her flimsy military-issue coat which was about twelve sizes too big for her. Hawkeye grinned as he watched her stomp her heavy boots, trying to restore the circulation to her feet. However, she only succeeded in causing her glasses to slip down her nose.
His smile of amusement faded as he turned and caught the look on Klinger's face. "Oh, no."
"Oh, yes," the clerk said dreamily.
He raised his eyebrows in disbelief. "Come on. You're joking, right? Your seraphic sweetheart is none other than our own Mousy Malone?"
Klinger frowned, clearly offended. "That's not her name. And so what if it is? Why's that so hard to believe?"
The surgeon chuckled, prodding at his eggs. "No disrespect intended, Klinger, but your taste in women has always been a little... suspect."
"Oh, is that so?" Klinger said indignantly. "Well, if you knew her like I do, you wouldn't be saying that." He gazed longingly across the mess tent at the nurse as she stood in the buffet line, rubbing her hands together. "I'll have you know, that while you were in Seoul getting pie-faced, she stood up to Major Winchester in front of half the camp."
"Ahhh." Now he understood. The incident of which Klinger spoke had been something of a cause célèbre at the 4077th ever since Hawkeye had returned. Not only had mild-mannered little Lieutenant Malone surprised everyone by ignoring Charles's direct order in the O.R. and getting away with it, but by giving Charles the verbal dressing-down of a lifetime in the Officers' Club. If the story hadn't been corroborated by several other residents of the compound, Hawkeye wouldn't have believed a word of it.
"All I can say is, I'm sorry I missed it," he said.
B.J. wandered over and slumped onto the bench beside him. "Missed what now?" he asked with a jaw-popping yawn.
"The execution of King Charles the Worst," Hawkeye replied. "Or at least, his ego."
"Mmm. Mm-hmm." B.J. nodded around a mouthful of floppy, decades-old bacon. "I was in Post-Op at the time, but I witnessed the after-effects later that night in the Swamp. King Charles was not a happy tyrant."
"Boy, you guys should have seen her," Klinger said proudly, puffing out his chest like a pigeon. "She was terrific. Absolutely fearless. She just stood up, looked the major straight in the eye — no easy task for her, by the way — and told him exactly where he could stuff his synonyms." He grinned. "Not in so many words, of course."
"Of course," said B.J. with a knowing smile. "And of course, this has nothing to do with the fact that she kissed you."
"Oh-ho!" Hawkeye crowed in delight. "Malone kissed you? Now we're getting somewhere."
Klinger kicked him under the table. "Would you keep it down? Sheesh, they say I have a big mouth!" He looked around before he spoke again. "She did not kiss me. I'll have you know, it was nothing more than a friendly peck on the cheek." He cleared his throat. "Needless to say, I haven't gotten around to washing it yet."
"Our hairy little girl is growing up," B.J. said wistfully.
Watching Malone across the mess tent, the swarthy clerk heaved a lovesick sigh. "Isn't she the most gorgeous thing you've ever seen?"
Hawkeye twisted around on the bench to glance inconspicuously at the nurse in question. He just couldn't understand what Klinger saw in her. With her pixie-like features and head-to-toe green fatigues, she bore a striking resemblance to something that he couldn't quite place at first. Then it struck him. "She looks like a myopic Christmas elf," he decided.
"What are you, crazy?" Klinger exclaimed.
"You're the authority, you tell us," B.J. answered.
"Just look at her!" the corporal insisted. "Look at that saucy little figure, those cupid's-bow lips. And those eyes! Have you seen her eyes?"
"Yes, I've seen her eyes," said Hawkeye, exasperated. "They're green. Army green. Just like everything else in this crummy place."
Klinger humphed. "Shows how much you know," he said, lifting his nose in the air. "Her eyes are a light sage, with flecks of gold."
B.J. chuckled softly. "Well, we'll leave you to drown in her eyes. All I want to know is how she managed to render Charles speechless. You know, for future reference."
But Hawkeye shook his head in disappointment. "Klinger, you've officially gone off the deep end." He leaned forward on his arms across the table. "There are quite literally gaggles of gorgeous nurses in this camp. And by some miracle, a few of them actually like you. I can hardly believe I'm saying this, but you could do better."
"Careful, Hawk," B.J. warned in a low voice.
"Yeah, what he said," Klinger added, narrowing his eyes. "You know, for your information, just because a girl doesn't have the body of Marilyn Monroe, that doesn't make her any less nice, or smart, or funny, than the ones who do. And just because you don't think a girl is gorgeous, that doesn't mean she ain't."
Hawkeye resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "Do I ever feel sorry for me." He turned to B.J. "What about you, Beej? What do you think of Malone?"
He gave a noncommittal shrug. "Don't ask me. In my opinion, there are only two women in the world: Peg, and everyone else."
Hawkeye snorted. "Scratch that. I feel much sorrier for you."
"And I feel sorry for both of you," Klinger muttered.
Malone walked by their table carrying her tray, and Hawkeye decided to humor the dear misguided mental case. He reached out and stopped her with a gentle tug on her sleeve. "Hey, where're you going, Red?" he asked amiably. "We reserved a pedestal especially for you."
"Thanks, I think," she replied as she slid onto the bench next to Klinger. Hawkeye was amused to observe him edging closer to her. "Good morning, B.J., Klinger. Hawkeye, welcome back to the pigpen."
"It's splendid to be back, thanks to you," he told her. "Charles hasn't been this quiet since he strained his vocal chords trying to sing Pagliacci. It's like I've died and gone to heaven."
The redhead's lips twitched in a brief, halfhearted smile. "Thanks very much," she said in a monotone, pushing her food listlessly around her tray. "I feel like an absolute creep."
Klinger frowned at her in disbelief. "What's there to feel bad about, Nellie?" he asked. "Major Winchester deserved to be put in his place. And believe me, it was a long time coming."
Hawkeye wasn't listening. Her name is Nellie? he thought in mild surprise. "I honestly didn't mean to lose my temper," she explained in frustration, dragging her hands through her unkempt hair. "Frankly, I could live with all of Major Winchester's wise-ass comments about enlisted men. But I just couldn't believe he would endanger a patient's life rather than admit he needed assistance from a non-comm. Finally something in me just snapped, and I descended on him like a harpy." She sighed despondently. "Now I wish I'd just kept my cavernous trap shut."
"Well, I, for one, am sure glad you didn't," Klinger said with a warm smile as he dug his fork into his food. "You were aces, Nellie! Standing up to the major like that, eyes blazing..." His fork strayed from its target and speared his napkin. "All those pretty words tumbling from your pretty lips..."
Malone cleared her throat lightly. "Klinger, would you please remove your hand from my knee?"
"Sorry."
As they spoke, the door opened again and Charles stepped inside, wearing his old tobogganing cap that Radar and Father Mulcahy had had mailed to him from Boston. Without a word, he strode directly to the mess line, studiously ignoring all of them as he went. Malone groaned inconsolably and let her head drop to the table.
"Aww, don't feel too bad, Red," said B.J., waving his hand dismissively. "Charles needs a good deflating every now and then. It keeps his head from floating away."
She shook her head, curly ginger hair bouncing. "He may be a windbag, but he's still a first-rate surgeon," she answered, her voice muffled by the table. "Heck, I'll be the first one to admit that. And he did save that boy's leg." She lifted her head, brow furrowed in resolve. "I really should just apologize."
The three men simultaneously made uneasy, if inarticulate, noises. Malone raised her eyebrows. "Don't try to rally behind me or anything, guys," she said.
"The thing is, Nellie," Klinger began hesitantly, "it takes a degree of humility and compassion to accept an apology. Major Winchester doesn't exactly possess either of those qualities in spades."
"In other words, don't expect much, kid," Hawkeye clarified, "because you're not going to get it."
"That's the spirit, keep the expectations low, and nobody gets disappointed," she said dryly. She set down her tarnished fork. "Well, the Malones have always been an annoyingly persistent bunch. And I don't particularly relish the thought of walking on eggshells around the major for the duration of this war." She smiled her peculiar crooked smile. "It's not like he can stay angry with me indefinitely, right?"
Hawkeye snickered, and B.J. began to whistle casually, but otherwise she received no real response. "Be that as it may," she continued firmly, "there's no harm in trying." She pushed her tray aside and rose from the table. "If you three will excuse me, I believe I will do just that."
Hawkeye watched Malone march off to confront her adversary, shaking his head in sympathy. The poor, hapless kid had absolutely no idea what she was undertaking. Personally, he didn't see the wisdom in it. When it came right down to it, she had miraculously succeeded in getting Charles to ignore her. Why tempt Fate?
"I guess she is kind of cute," B.J. admitted as she left. "In a frumpy-high-school-English-teacher sort of way. Although in a lot of respects, she almost reminds me of Charles... without all the pomp and circumstance."
Hawkeye nodded, drinking his lukewarm coffee. "The view from behind is much better, too," he had to admit.
"Hey!" Klinger exclaimed angrily. "Keep your eyes to yourself, Pierce."
The dark-haired surgeon drew back in shock and righteous indignation. "What's the gag?" he demanded. "I don't get it. A second ago you were trying to convince me she was a goddess. Now you're saying I can't even challenge your claim?"
The clerk narrowed his dark eyes. "With all due respect, sir, I saw her first." He crossed his arms over his chest. "So hands off!"
"Klinger," B.J. said as he set down his fork, "Lieutenant Malone is a pretty smart girl. I don't think it's much of a stretch to say she's smarter than you. What makes you think she'd be interested?"
"O ye of little faith," Klinger replied with a smug grin. He stood up and daubed his mouth very primly with his napkin. "Witness, Captains, as I turn on the fabled Klinger charm."
Hawkeye watched, albeit a little dubiously, as Klinger straightened his matted fur coat in an incongruously formal gesture and sauntered over to the table on the far side of the mess tent. Malone was currently sitting across from Charles, engaged in deep conversation with the ill-used major. As she spoke, Hawkeye noticed that her fists were clenched under the table, betraying her outward calm.
Just as Klinger reached her and placed a hand lightly on her shoulder, she stood up abruptly, causing him to pinwheel backward in surprise. She turned, spoke some hasty words to the clerk, and rushed out of the mess tent, nearly bowling Father Mulcahy over as she left.
"My goodness," the priest remarked, his eyes wide.
After exchanging a wordless glance, Hawkeye and B.J. stood and made their way to the far table, where Charles was very calmly sipping his coffee and perusing the Boston Globe. Klinger was glaring openly at him.
"Enjoying yourself?" B.J. asked flatly.
"Immensely." Charles glanced up briefly before returning his gaze to his paper. "What can I do for you gentlemen?"
"You can start by telling us what, exactly, you said to Malone," said Hawkeye.
The major frowned in distaste. "Malone," he repeated, still not looking up. "Such an unpleasant little woman. I merely saw through her insincere apology and informed her in no uncertain terms that I have no need for her pity. Or her friendship, for that matter. Does that sate your curiosity?"
Annoyed at his coolness, Hawkeye snatched up his newspaper and slapped it against the edge of the table. "You dunce!" he exclaimed. "She just got done telling us she felt terrible! There was nothing insincere about it."
"Pardon me, but I couldn't help overhearing," Mulcahy said in his unobtrusive way as he came to join them. "If it's true that Lieutenant Malone is repentant, then it would be a great act of kindness to accept her apology. After all, how can we expect our heavenly Father to forgive us if we do not forgive our neighbors?"
Charles arched a haughty eyebrow. "I wasn't aware that this was Sunday, Father," he drawled.
"You know, you're really unbelievable, Major," Klinger put in angrily. "That poor kid was only doing her job as best as she could. You're just punishing her because you can't stand the thought of admitting she was right. That you did need help in the O.R."
"And that Klinger did a bang-up job, too," B.J. added.
"Oh, no one is disputing that," Charles replied innocently. "I am more than happy to concede that Klinger conducted himself... adequately." He rose to his feet, plucking his paper from Hawkeye's fingers. "And I am sorry for Malone's pangs of conscience. Truly, my heart bleeds." He gave a smirk that was tinged with, oddly enough, pain. "Wait, strike that. Apparently, I have no heart."
He nodded stiffly, ignoring the men's disapproving stares, and strolled out of the mess tent.
"So tell me. What in the seven Hells am I supposed to do now?"
Kealani Kellye raised her dark almond eyes from her magazine. "Do about what?"
"Haven't you been listening at all?" Nellie exclaimed, throwing her pillow across the tent at the other nurse in frustration. "Major Winchester officially despises me, and no matter what I do, I can't seem to make things right. If anything, I've just made them worse than ever."
Kellye caught her biting her nails and shot her a reprimanding look. With an effort, she brought her hands down to her lap. "I've tried to apologize to him roughly a hundred times. He's like this fortress of indifference." She sighed wearily. "I'm down to the end of what's left of my wits, Kellye. I don't know what to do anymore."
In answer, Kellye shrugged. "Maybe there's nothing more you can do. Maybe you'll just have to accept the fact that he's not going to forgive you."
"But who does that?" Nellie persisted. "What kind of a person stubbornly refuses to forgive someone just for the sake of seeing them miserable?"
Kellye closed her magazine and regarded her like a wayward child. "Nellie, Nellie," she chided. "What makes you think he's doing it to make you miserable?"
The redhead blinked owlishly through her glasses. "If not, then why else?" she asked, confused.
The Hawaiian nurse folded her legs underneath herself and clasped her hands together, assuming the position Nellie had come to recognize as her lecturing stance. "Just try to put yourself in Major Winchester's shoes," she said. "You're an educated, accomplished surgeon, with enough credentials to open up your own hospital. Suddenly, in the middle of surgery, you're outranked by a nurse who has only been in Korea for a few weeks; a nurse who you thought was your friend. On top of that, you and your credentials are insulted by that same nurse in front of half the camp. How would you feel?"
Kellye hadn't even gotten through half of her speech before a sick feeling settled in Nellie's stomach. My God, she's right, she thought regretfully. No wonder he hates me. I completely ignored his feelings. I'm such a little mosquito.
Noticing her bleak expression, Kellye smiled sympathetically. "Perspective sure is a jerk, huh?"
"Tell me about it." Nellie took off her glasses and rubbed at her eyes. "Now I'm not even sure if I forgive myself."
"Why is it so important to you, anyway?" Kellye asked. "Major Winchester forgiving you, I mean. It's not exactly the end of the world if he doesn't, you know."
"I know, it's just..." Nellie's weak eyes strayed to her book collection, which was too large for even her foot locker to contain. Several volumes lay piled in the corner or stashed under her cot. "We were beginning to get along so well. We have so much in common. I've never been able to talk about literature and music without someone expiring from boredom. But he actually listened to me, and knew what I was saying. He understood me, even better than my brother Danny does." She swallowed. "Maybe even better than my father did."
She returned her glasses to her nose and found Kellye looking at her intently. "At any rate," she said quickly, "I'm simply not ready to accept that my idiotic mouth has cost me a friend. Even a friend as impossibly arrogant as Major Winchester."
"Maybe you should tell him that."
Nellie laughed humorlessly. "Oh, yes. He'll love that. In fact, he'll very diplomatically suggest that I go pick flowers in the mine field."
"No, really," said Kellye, very seriously. "Not in those exact words, of course. Just be honest. Tell him how much his friendship has meant to you, and that you're sorry you mistreated it. If it meant anything to him, and I suspect it did... then maybe he won't be so stubborn anymore."
As she considered this, Nellie's eyes lighted on the title of a thick maroon book at the top of one the untidy stacks on the floor: Selected Poems, by Alfred, Lord Tennyson. She recalled being shocked the week before, when Major Winchester had informed her that Tennyson was one of the few Victorian poets he had never read. She had been meaning to loan him her own copy, when this whole ugly business had started. Now it gave her an idea.
She grinned at Kellye. "Don't you ever get tired of being right all the time?"
"Yes," the other nurse confessed, turning back to her magazine, "but it passes."
Rolling her eyes, Nellie scooped up the book and darted out of the nurses' tent, heading across the compound toward the Swamp. At the moment she could only see one light on inside the surgeons' quarters, and she was fairly certain it wasn't Winchester's. Her supposition proved correct when she rapped lightly on the door and B.J.'s voice drifted to her from within.
"Yo," he said in his usual informal way.
"It's Nellie," she replied. "May I come in for a moment?"
His reply was inexplicably muffled: "Charles isn't here, so the coast must be clear."
She stepped quickly inside to see the blond surgeon attempting to darn a hole in his socks. He looked strangely endearing, sitting there on the edge of his cot, holding the sock between in his knees and a needle in his mouth. That explained his sudden speech impediment.
"Need any help?" she offered.
He shook his head with a good-natured smile. "Nah. I figure if I start learning how to do all this domestic stuff now, I'll be more help to Peg when I get home."
The man really was impossibly sweet, she reflected. "You'd better not learn too much, or she'll decide to let you make up for all the housework she's been doing herself," she said jokingly. He chuckled. "Is Major Winchester likely to be in soon, do you think?"
"I know not, my good lady," B.J. replied, threading a clashing piece of red yarn through his black sock. "He's in Post-Op right now, but he might have plans after his shift." He looked up at her. "Still trying to break his back with the olive branch?"
Nellie gazed down at the book in her hands. "You could say that. Only now, I'm doing it for the right reasons." She noticed him eyeing her curiously. "Do you think I could just leave this here for him?" she asked, indicating the thick volume.
"I'll guard it with my very life until he returns," he said gallantly.
She smiled and placed the book on top of the red velvet pillow on Winchester's cot. "Thanks, B.J., you're a peach," she told him as she paused at the door of the Swamp.
"Complete with fuzz," he answered, stroking his mustache. She shook her head, laughing.
Returning to the nurses' tent, which was empty for the moment, Nellie decided to pass some time by writing to Danny. He was doing very well in his outfit, or so he hastened to assure her in his letters. He got along swimmingly with his bunkmates, who thankfully didn't mind his enormous vocabulary. In fact, he had become something of the resident scribe, taking down dictations from his fellow soldiers to their family, thus assuring each piece of correspondence was legible and contained correct spelling.
Leave it to the Malones, Nellie thought in amusement, to waste no time in earning the title of Camp Nerd.
Suddenly she heard a slight scrape outside the tent, and she looked up from her letter. "Hello?" she called.
There was no answer. It occurred to her that it might be one of the local dogs, looking for a morsel, and she stood up and walked to the door, prepared to give it a bit of pumpkin bread her uncle had sent her from California.
Instead, upon opening the door, she found absolutely nothing outside. Nothing, save for an old hardcover book bound in maroon silk, lying in the dust outside her doorway.
When it came to reminiscing with fondness over getting pneumonia from the freezing river in Boston with which Charles shared his name, there was nothing like taking a cold shower in late October. By the time his evening shift had ended in Post-Op, there was nary a drop of hot water left to soothe his aching body. He stood shivering under the icy cascade, thinking of warm things and fervently wishing he was anywhere else. Like sitting beside a crackling fireplace back home, sipping brandy and reading Shakespeare.
Upon further reflection, perhaps not Shakespeare. For him that name now brought to mind a certain brazen redhead who had so callously thrown his attempts at friendship back in his face.
No. Not Shakespeare. And most decidedly not Tennyson. Perhaps Longfellow, instead.
Shutting off the frigid water, Charles stepped out of the shower and quickly dried himself, wrapping up in his thick dressing gown. It wasn't much of a defense against autumn in Korea, especially after the loss of his beloved polar suit, but with any luck there would still be a fire going in the tiny woodstove inside the Swamp. Better yet, his tentmates might be elsewhere, leaving him a few precious moments alone to listen to his music.
One could dream, anyway.
He picked up his towel and stepped gingerly out into the cold air, already fancying he felt his wet hair beginning to freeze to his head. He had almost made it back to his tent when out of the corner of his eye he saw red. Red curls, to be precise.
Vainly Charles tried to readjust his course to avoid yet another unpleasantness, but it was too late. He groaned as Lieutenant Malone approached him, her stubborn little chin raised challengingly. She stopped in front of him, waving a dust-covered book in the air. "So, this is what I get for trying to restore the peace between us?" she demanded.
"Lieutenant, you are wasting your time," he said dispassionately as he side-stepped her, continuing on his way back toward the Swamp.
But Malone would not be dissuaded. She quickly fell into step beside him, taking two steps for each one of his. "It would appear that I am," she said, vexed. "I've tried everything short of falling to my knees and groveling at your feet." She swiftly shot in front of him, inconveniently blocking his path. "What do I have to do in order for you to forgive me, Major? I feel like I'm apologizing to a wall!"
Charles was really beginning to get rather cold. And impatient. "A wall," he repeated bitterly. "An appropriate analogy, wouldn't you say? Comparing me to an inanimate object?"
The nurse sighed in frustration. "You know that's not what I meant, sir," she said in a quiet voice.
"Oh, come, of course you did," he insisted, very sweetly. "Let us not tiptoe around the issue. I am a heartless automaton, after all."
Her lower lip was a little too set, as if she were trying desperately to keep it steady. "No, you're not," she murmured.
Charles chuckled sourly. "Then apparently you must have invented your own version of things in your mind in order to ameliorate your guilt. Do let me know how that works out for you. On second thought, don't."
Malone suddenly exploded. "I'm sorry, all right?" she exclaimed, preceding a small sound at the back of her throat that closely resembled a sob. "I don't know how many more times I can tell you, I'm sorry! I lost my head for one brief moment!" She swallowed. "I forgot where I was, and the overprotective big sister in me just took over. I know that's no excuse."
Charles was surprised to see a drop of moisture on her face. Furiously, she brushed it away. "You were right, when you called me a petulant child," she continued shakily. "That's exactly what I was. And I felt awful when you said you thought you'd found a kindred spirit in me. Because the truth is, I was beginning to hope I'd found one in you.
"Suddenly this stupid war seemed almost bearable. I thought that maybe, as long as I had a friend who actually understood me, I would be all right." She shook her head with a cynical laugh. "But as usual, my complete lack of social skills has managed to ruin everything."
She shrugged wearily, a futile gesture. "I don't know what else to say, except... I am deeply sorry for the way I treated you, Major. And I really hope we can be friends."
For the moment Charles stood silently, at a loss. He certainly had not expected anything like this. Unwittingly, his mind went back to all those nights he had spent sitting across from the diminutive nurse in the Officers' Club, discussing the complex, ironical dialogue of Oscar Wilde, or the effortless dignity and elegance of Bach's cello suites. Watching her green eyes light up as she spoke passionately about Goëthe's heavy symbolism. Hearing her laugh when she confessed how much she loved the Jeeves stories by P.G. Wodehouse.
And then another, less pleasant memory forced its way into his reverie. The memory of her snide remarks, and her outright insults. Of the other officers' laughter and applause.
"Haven't you noticed that you don't have a single friend in this camp?"
They had loved every moment of it.
The pain of her betrayal made his resolve as hard as granite.
Looking her square in the eye, he said, "I'm afraid not."
Malone's expressive face was etched with confusion and despair. "But I—"
He held up a hand to silence her. "You don't seem to understand," he said very slowly. "You publicly humiliated me, Lieutenant. You made a fool of me. Me." He paused to let the last word hang in the air. "Did you honestly think a few feeble words of remorse and a tattered peace offering would be sufficient to dupe me into forgetting that?"
There was a short silence, punctuated by a sniffle he couldn't be sure he had even heard. "All right," Malone finally said in a tight voice. "Fair enough. I won't bother you anymore." She turned the book over in her hands, taking great pains to avoid his eyes. "But I'd like you to have this anyway. There's no sense in denying yourself the works of a great poet just because of me."
Before Charles had a chance to protest, she shoved the book into his hands and walked away, wiping roughly at her cheeks.
Suppressing a growl of annoyance, Charles tucked the book under his arm and stalked back to the Swamp, slamming the door shut behind him. He felt Pierce and Hunnicutt's eyes on him as he sat down on his cot, throwing the bothersome tome onto his desk among his papers.
"Boy, that book seems to really like you," Hunnicutt commented.
"The feeling is emphatically not mutual," Charles snapped in reply. He leaned forward and rubbed wearily at his temples, trying to ignore the building pressure. In his peripheral vision, he noticed that the book had fallen open to the front flyleaf. There seemed to be a bit of writing scrawled on it.
Likely a written apology from Malone. A mediocre attempt, at best.
Out of nowhere, an image flitted, unexpected and unwanted, across his mind: a single bead of moisture resting on Malone's freckled cheek.
He remembered how smug he had been when he had told Margaret that he had never in his life reduced a woman to tears. Now, he could no longer truthfully say that.
He didn't know why he picked it up. If asked at the time, he would have claimed mere curiosity. But years later, if you caught him on a good day, he just might have confessed to you that he was looking for a reason to forgive her. If you were lucky.
With a put-upon sigh, he plucked the book up from his desk and flipped it open to the inside cover. There was a brief inscription in a small, spidery hand.
For Nellie — This book belonged to your mother. Tennyson was a favorite of hers, and I have no doubt you'll come to feel the same way. You have more in common with her than you know. I'm proud of you, and I know that, up in Heaven, she's proud of you too. Love, Dad.
Charles felt a very unwelcome tightness begin to form in his chest.
Good Lord, he thought miserably. She gave me her dead mother's book. Simply gave it to me.
He groaned and fell backward against his thin mattress, clasping the book to himself like it was some endangered and defenseless animal. His tentmates stared across the Swamp at him curiously.
"What's up, Chuck?" asked Hunnicutt.
"I am a cad," he muttered, staring dismally up at the canvas ceiling. "An utter cad. She gave me a precious family heirloom. And I flung it into the dust."
The surgeons exchanged glances. "You're going to have to run that by us again, old buddy," said Pierce.
Charles sat up abruptly, tapping the maroon cover of the book with his fingertips. "Don't you see what that conniving woman has done?" he demanded. They continued to stare at him, and he sighed in defeat and, perhaps, relief. "She's coerced me into forgiving her."
"Oh, good," Pierce replied in a bored tone. "I was wondering when we would go back to being one big, crappy family."
A/N: Har har har. Sorry that was so long. Actually, no, I'm not. However, I'm enjoying this far more than I should. But I am a little sorry that Hawkeye was such a horse's rear end about Klinger's little crush. But we all know how he acted around Kellye, until she got on his case about his shallowness. He can't help himself.
Also, I thought I'd share this with you! Last night I had a new cocktail at a local restaurant, and guess what it was called. A Grape Nehi. Yay! I ordered it just for the name, but I was pleasantly surprised. I'm pretty sure Radar wouldn't have been able to handle it, though; it had vodka in it. Anyway, I've been sitting in front of my computer too long, and my eyes are starting to cross. I shall end with this brief message: support your fellow fanfiction writers. Leave a review.
-Octopus