FLASH FORWARD
"What do you want to do today?"
"Nothing if it means you have to leave my arms."
She smiled and kissed his nose, and re-curled herself back into his arms.
He couldn't help but bury his face in the crook of her neck, and inhale the sweet scent of honey and spice she used to wash her dark chocolate locks. He relished her sweet aroma, and placed a soft kiss behind her earlobe, making her cringe with a bittersweet pleasure. He met soft giggles as he continue to kiss and tease her.
The Forbidden Fruit
September 1952
Harsh wind and rain beat down upon the grounds of Fort Ord, California; one of the few army bases primarily used for training new recruits and draftee units preparing to depart to Korea. The fort also held specialized medical facilities with introductory programs, training and preparing new nurses (and doctors) stationing at M.A.S.H units in various subjects of first aid, surgical equipment and procedures, administrating medicines and medications, and recognizing indigenous diseases; all things a nurse may encounter in the atmosphere of warfare. And along side their professional duties, they would be taught physical and mental endurances of war—to cope with the demanding and stressful conditions endured under warfare nursing.
After Amelia had finished her internship at York General, she received her nursing certificate qualifying her to work in any medical establishment around the state of New York. However Amelia had overheard from a chatty pair of women in a coffee shop, that the A.N.C. (Army Nurse Corps) was in desperate need of an influx of volunteer nurses, (considering there was no mandate-draft system for women or nurses) and that they were recruiting nurses for double of what they could make with residency in a hospital. From those chatty women, Amelia took all the information they could spare about the A.N.C's plead, and signed up immediately at the nearest recruiting office.
Amelia knew this was her one and only chance to raise above and escape from the hole her family had been condemned to rot in—to take her sister away from the erotic and violent behavior of their father—to save her sister from a lifetime of misery and pain as she had lived. . . . Amelia knew this would take her away from her sister, but without this financial gain they couldn't move forward—they wouldn't be able to live without it.
"We have the ability to change our own destinies," Amelia had pleaded with her younger sister, Nancy, when she had first told her about joining the army. "And I am going to make this sacrifice for us, Nancy. . . . Please try to understand, baby, this is for our future. I promise to take you away from here—"
"But what if you don't come back—what if you die! You'd leave me with him!"
Nancy had taken the news badly, and didn't speak to Amelia for days. She shut herself in her room, and cried—and pleaded to God for help and guidance. She asked God to help Amelia see reason why her leaving was a horrible idea. . . .But God must not have heard, for Amelia said good-bye a few days later.
Amelia had left on bad-terms, but knew Nancy would eventually come around—she knew she was just as strong as she.
Amelia purchased a one-way, cross-country bus ticket to San Francisco, where there after she would be bused to Fort Ord; the facility where she would be trained and prepared as an army nurse. The travel nearly emptied her life-savings apart from a few dollars, and she thanked Nancy's God for delivering her safely—though with barely enough money to buy but one meal over the course of the bus ride. And again for the fact that she would be clothed and feed in the training facilities, and wouldn't be needing the few dollars left in her pockets.
Amelia arrived at Fort Ord in early September, and began her training underneath Chief Nurse Major Wilma Jenkins and Senior drill instructor Colonel George S. Turner. . . . Amelia took an immediately liking to Major Jenkins. She was a crafty, but hilarious old woman, who was very fond of unusual cliches—and Amelia adored and respected the old nurse. And most unlike Major Jenkins was Colonel George S. Turner—Amelia immediately got on his shit list, and was there after doomed to his bad temper. Amelia thought he was real son of a bitch.
There was no question as he had established his dominance (and his qualification as a true son of a bitch) over Amelia two weeks into her training. . . .
Harsh wind and rain beat down upon the grounds as a nasty thunder and lightning storm had swept over the fort, flooding the entire grounds with rain and mud. It called to a halt all training exercises and an early lights-out for the draftees; except for one particular drill instructor and his recruit.
"Move it! recruit! Down on the ground and give me fifty!" thundered his voice over the vacant grounds of Fort Ord, in the darkness that was that night.
Amelia was surging with pent-up rage as she reluctantly obey his command, but she was determined to never lose her dignity or surrender to his merit. She sunk into the water and mud, and positioned herself into a push-up formation; the rain already soaked though her uniform and her hair already matted to her face.
"Count your strides and begin on my mark, . . . " he paused, watching her already struggling in the air as she held her position. Her weakness, physically, amused him, and he chuckled, "time."
"One . . .two . . . three . . . "
"Ryan your attitude has been plague on my life—so I am going to return the favor," the colonel began rather softly, but his voice was very condescending as he circled around her heaving body, his trusty riding crop stick underneath his armpit; always ready to strike—always unexpected. "I am the strictest instructor here, and you're going to learn just how cruel I can be. You gonna hate me—before you love me."
"Eight—I've already have a head start on that, sir, . . . nine—"
Amelia was plunged to the ground, her face becoming caked with mud as the colonel had slammed his boot down her back, forcing her into the mud and water. Amelia remained lying in mud as that abrupt force to her body created an uneasiness in her chest. After a few moments, she pulled herself up onto her hands and knees with the intention of propping herself back onto her knees to wipe away the mud covering her eyes and mouth, but the colonel had squatted in front of her and whip his riding crop stick under her chin, forcing her eyes to meet his.
"You're going to fear me Ryan—mark my words. By the end of this training program I'll have you cringing at the mere sight of me . . . so you better learn how to respect me—or receive the punishment for in-suburbanite misconduct. . . . Which is it Ryan? Sink or swim?"
Amelia sucked her cheek between her teeth and bit down, suppressing that all too familiar rush of adrenaline—this tactic of intimidation was infuriating and degrading. Amelia had too much pride to give in to the easy temptation with every one of her impulses raging to strike or lash him, but she bite her cheek and remained silent, her hands shaking with a smoldering rage.
The colonel smirked triumphantly, and remarked, "Good. Now that I have your undivided attention and at the heel of my mercy, you'll listen—eagerly to what I have to offer."
The colonel had her resume her push-ups in the mud as he circled around her like a voucher. He ranted on about certain qualities one excepted from an army nurse—bravery, courage, intelligence, a presentable appearance; none of which included Amelia's attitude. He said you do what you are told to do—no questions asked. Amelia couldn't help but remark a sarcasm retort, and then was promptly pushed down into the mud.
It was a never-ending circuit—his rage fueled her defiance, and her defiance fueled his rage. Neither one would surrender their dignity, and the battle raged on in the pouring rain.
"Thirty-nine . . . Forty . . . Forty-one . . ."
"You call those push-ups Ryan! Get that ass down!" yelled the colonel, and slammed his foot down on her back again, and forced Amelia down into the mud. When the colonel didn't let up on his foot, Amelia began to squirm underneath his weight as her face plunged into the water and mud beginning to suffocate. "You hick that ass of yours in the air again, and you'll owe me another fifty push-ups."
Colonel Turner released his weight off her back, causing Amelia to promptly pop up gasping and choking for air. She spit and choke out water and mud. Her arms ached and spasmed as she pushed herself up from the ground. She was about to push off the ground to lean on her knees, but her arm gave away, and she collapsed back into the mud. She was literally spent—her arms spasming, her legs weak, and her head becoming light and dizzy; she was ashamed to beg, but she had no longer had any strength left in her arms—he was going break her until she beg.
"You're going to finish these god-damned push-ups Ryan! if it takes all night."
Amelia whimpered and cringed against a sudden sharp against her ass, and her eyes shot over her shoulder to see his crop stick recoiling from her. He had whip her.
"Get up Ryan!" When she didn't move, he brought his crop stick against her ass again. She flinched, and cried out as he hit the same place as the first.
"You son of a bitch!" she cried again, and covered cupped the pain on her ass.
"Don't give me lip Ryan," he said, and whipped her in an area she wasn't shielding. He was met with another involuntary cry—the sweet sound of her dignity crumbling in his hand as she pleaded with him to stop.
"Nine more Ryan. Finish. Now. "
Amelia was utterly exhausted, and inwardly cursed that son of a bitch and denounced every fiber of that fucking asshole, but she struggled to her knees. Amelia clenched her jaw tight, knowing and fearing the pain she faced.
She remained silence for the rest of her punishment. She plunged into the mud every time, unable to support her weight in the air, and then would struggle to push herself up again—but every time she would regain her composure and set her back straight again. And with each fall he rewarded her with a strike of his crop stick on her ass.
" . . . Fifty—"
Amelia finished and collapsed into the mud. The colonel came back around and stuck his crop stick underneath her chin again, forcing her eyes to meet his again.
"Don't step out of line with again, Ryan. . . .This was nothing compared to what I could have done to you. . . "
Whip. Mud. Struggle. Whip. Mud. Bang. Whip. Bang. Bangbangbang!
The Forbidden Fruit
Present Time—November 1952
Amelia sprung forward from her pillow—she wasn't able to control the slight tremble in her chest as she abruptly awoke from the surrealistic nightmare. It put a horrible heavy feeling in her chest like a knife was slowly being inserted into her heart, and she cupped her hand over her heart. A cold sweat had reigned over her body, and she begin to shake as the winter's air closed in around her. She let herself fall back on her pillows, an arm bent over her eyes as she relaxed only slightly back into her bed.
Bangbangbang!
Amelia realized that that loud rapping noise from somewhere beyond her dream must have been the someone knocking on the door, and what must had been what thankfully awoke her from the nightmare. Her head split in two as there came another loud set of rapping noise—a migraine from the assumption of alcohol on an exhausted mind—something she knew happened every time, but the effects out weighed the side-effects. But they had driven her to drink—this tight-knit dysfunctional family of the 4077th.
At last, perceiving the knocker so utterly content and impatient with the rapturous knocking, and seemingly so confidently aware of her—or someone's presences in the vacated tent after keeping with the infuriating banging so long after no response, Amelia concluded pretending 'nobody's home' wasn't going to work, and called out to the knocker annoyed:
"Enter, at your own risk." Her last words were drowned out by a man's pestering cheery voice as he promptly stepped through the door.
"Goooood morning my fearless warrior. The sun is shining, the skies are blue, and Major Houlihan is in the mess tent if you wanna ruffle a few of her feathers again."
Amelia chuckled humorlessly as she sat forward and threw her legs over the cot, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. "Oh, Klinger, . . . have I forever been condemned to the association with the major—and my now, regrettable, mis-speech of words or rather my poor choice in words. . . . Perhaps I should have picked another synonym." Amelia smiled, and shook her head. "And if so—I may have to off myself before this tight-kit family does—"
The miniscule tenderness she had had for the hairy company clerk (brought forth by his enthusiastic introduction and happy regards for her coral with the major), and having but said one word to him to pryer to this, amplitude immensely as her eyes shifted over his attire; his spinning image everything her attitude towards the army represented—rebellion and sticking it to the man. Amelia's mood lightened immediately as her sights finally set upon a white floral dress, matching white gloves, heels , and a hat, and more importantly—hairy tan arms. And Amelia, only having known him for three days, felt an unusual pride for her kind (the rebels). She had seen many smart-asses, pranksters, and idiotic stuns pulled—all gunning for a section eight, but this man was the diamond in the rough.
"You look very charming, my hairy friend," she remarked genuinely as she stood and took his gloved hand.
"Why thank you," he sang upon hearing her enthusiasm, and slowly began to twirl, showcasing the dress' defining feature. "You don't think it makes my butt look too big?"
Amelia couldn't suppress her amusement and laughed as he aimed his backside towards her, arching his back and popping out his butt.
"I don't now if it's just the puffiness of the dress or my butt . . . " He turned back around to see her fighting a smile. "So that's what you look like when you smile—I didn't think it possible."
It was evident that he was trying to cheer her up with his dramatic performance and Amelia was very appreciative of his thoughtfulness. But the dramatics died away, and Amelia slumped back down her cot.
"So where is everyone?" Amelia had noticed the empty bunks and loud noises outside the tent.
"Huh?" he said still a little enthralled about this dress. "Oh, yay . . . Everyone was at Father Mulcahy's service this morning. And boy did everyone flock to when they heard that sweet sounding piano. Did you hear it?" Amelia shot him a knowingly look. "Apparently not. But boy was it one of Father Mulcahy's best services yet! Him and that Mary Baker are sure an unbeatable team! Sure enough once she started playing, people were cramming themselves in to get a seat. That Mary Baker is so kind and nice, sure has that magic touch—Even Charles Winchester was impressed and praised her for her musical talents. . . ."
The miniscule happiness that had resided was now gone. Amelia inwardly cringed as she heard Mary Baker's name repeated with such praise. . . . The frustration she had felt trying to get Mary out of the jeep flared inside her and she was reminded that every minute she had spent whining and crying was a minute against the Private Rogers' life. She knew it was unfair to hold that against her, but she wondered what Mary Baker was even doing in the army with her light stomach. And if she heard another word about the chaplain and Mary Baker she was going to be sick.
"Alright, Klinger, enough about—that. . . . Why have you come?"
"Oh, here you are," he said, suddenly remembering the initial reason to stop by. "One freshly pressed olive-drab duffel bag—clothes and items included. And one army issued olive-drab coat, x-may the blood."
Klinger's heart fluttered with compassion as he watched a visible sign of relief sweep across her face as she was once again reunited with her belongings that had been left behind in the crashed jeep. He handed her the bag with a new appreciation for her and her self-being. Maybe we all were too quick to judge, he thought as he watched her set the bag down on her cot and begin to rummage through it for something in particular and pull out what appeared to be a wallet-sized picture of someone.
"Whose that," he asked as he came to stand beside her.
Amelia remained silent, looking sadly down at the picture, her thumb grazing the surface affectionately. She faced an internal struggle on whether or not she wanted to reveal an imitate detail of her life, having made a promise to never to so to anyone, but with his new status of appreciation, she couldn't help but yield to his adorability. And at last, in an almost inaudible whisper as she was reminded of how she left, she spoke:
"My younger sister, Nancy. . . she's sixteen."
Sensing the difficulty Amelia was having, Klinger nodded softly, and replied, "Well, she's a looker. Mom and Pap must be proud."
At the mention of parents, Amelia recoiled away from Klinger and replaced the picture back into the duffel bag.
"Is there anything else you need?"
Klinger's brows knitted together at her sudden change of subject, and frowned, wondering about it. "Oh, no, just thought you'd like your things."
It seemed when Amelia's personal life was in conversation too deeply, she recoiled and put up a barrier. And as he turned to leave, seeing the emotional turn of the conversation was taking, Amelia stopped him with a hand on his shoulder, and forced a warm smile. "Thank you Klinger."
The Forbidden Fruit
The air had warmed considerably as noon ascended over the 4077th, and what had been left of the blizzard snow finally melted away. . . .That eccentric service man who had lead them into the Seoul Headquarters had been right: 'This is Korea's weather for ya! Just wait until tomorrow when it's blue skies and green pastures. Ya, it'll throw ya for a loop.'
After Klinger had left, Amelia had unpacked her belongings from the duffel back, and finally settled into her bunk. She was still exhausted and wanted to fall back asleep, but she knew she needed to adjust to her schedule, and force herself to stay awake. What she needed was a cold shower.
Amelia began slipping off her layers she had put on during the cold night; her thin jacket, her army pants, and extra socks and layers. She rummaged through her bag and pulled out a full body pair of longs johns, and slipped them on. She hadn't brought along a bathrobe, of which she made a note to buy as soon as pay day rolled around, and neither did she want to walk across the compound in nothing but a towel wrapped her body—so the pair of long johns was all she had. Although, as she slipped them on, she realized they weren't going to be covering her body either. She could barely clasp the buttons at the top—they must have shrank when Klinger dropped her duffel bag of clothes off at the washers. The messed fabric clang and hugged every curve of her body—except her breast as they pop out every time she inhaled.
Shit, she thought as she knew she wasn't getting across that compound without being noticed. Just my fucking luck—just keep getting buried underneath stupidity and life. But nonetheless slipped on her army boots, laces untied and loose, and grabbed a towel. Before she stepped out of the tent, she ripped her hair from the tight bun, and a spray of snarly brown waves fell over her shoulders. She ran her fingers over her head, rubbing and scratching the pain away, and relished the pleasure after releasing the tension from a tight bun.
She didn't care if she looked unkept or exhausted or messy. She didn't care to make herself look presentable or pretty as she had observed with the other nurses. She didn't care what others thoughts or opinions were. She would keep to herself and hopefully they would kept out from hers. She wasn't here to make friends; just do her work and earn a paycheck.
Amelia stepped outside the nurse's tent, her eyes immediately searching for the shower tent; to her dismay she spotted it all the way across the compound—past the mess tent and the 'swamp' as she had come to learn, where womanizing Pierce, Charles Winchester, and B.J. Hunnicutt resided. She sighed defeated as she realized she was never getting across this compound without being noticed, but nonetheless straightened her back and started across the compound.
A few servicemen and woman were walking about the compound, not taking notice to her—thankfully, but when she neared to the mess tent she realized there must had been a late Sunday service and could hear muffled piano music. Christ, she thought as she realized she was going to have to walk by a tent full of people, but to her relief the music stopped and people began to empty out of the tent. Amelia slowed her pace so they would dissipate before she would have to across by.
Amelia ducked by the mess tent and started to the other side, but before she got too far from the mess tent, she hear her name yelled behind her.
"Lieutenant Ryan!?"
The voice was soft and insecure, as if the person didn't know whether her to be the lieutenant for sure. And Amelia didn't have to see the person to know who beckoned for her. His soft spoken and sweet natured voice was very distinct, and even a little boyish—charming in that aspect, of which swept Amelia underneath his boyish charm. . . . And thinking about his naive and innocent demeanor, Amelia couldn't but help smile to herself when she realized she was going to be approaching him in this provocative attire. . . . She knew what was to become of their conversation; his natural concern for her well-being, especially after the little incident with his door, he would ask how she was.
It was a twisted perversion, she thought as she turned around in the middle of the compound, and made her way to the chaplain beckoning her by the mess tent, but there was something about him and him being a priest that was forbidden and tempting. . . . His discomfort was amusing—not in any sense of demeaning his delicate nature, but rather warming and enticing. He striked her curiosity.
She approached him, not like the last time when he had called on her last night to discuss Lt. Benson and the major, irritated and impatient, but with a little glint in her eye that teased any man who saw. Her perverse mind wanted to see him squirm.
"Lu—lu—lieutenant Ryan!?" he stammered nervously as his body involuntarily began to fidget when he realized he had just called over the lieutenant in such a state. Though he consciously tried to hide his flustered and embarrassed manner by pretending—acting as though her attire hadn't caught his attention. His eyes never faulted below her lips as he, discreetly as possible, tried to avoid from accidentally looking down.
Amelia watched his internal and external battle with a deviant delight as his eyes stared cautiously at her. She had to bite her bottom lip from giggling at his embarrassed behavior. She could watch him all day, but after a few awkward moments (for him, not her) of him opening his mouth and then shutting in the same breath, apparently unable to vocalize his thoughts, or perhaps didn't want to accidentally say something wrong, Amelia licked her lips, and said rather teasingly:
"Yes John? Is there something you wanted to speak to me about? . . . Because I was just on my way to take a shower and—"
"Yes," he replied quickly, feeling like he was keeping her from something and didn't want to intrude on her time any longer than he needed—as if saying it faster, it would relief his guilt faster. "I just wanted to—I mean—to know—I mean to know about your curves—nose—I mean . . . "
The chaplain could have slapped himself in the back of his head for being unable to control himself and his stammering speech. What is wrong with me, he thought as he tried to composed himself, letting his eyes closed for a moment. He felt like a babbling fool—and worst like a nervous teenager. He hadn't been excepting that attire on her and certainly wouldn't have called her over if he had known. He opened them, his eyes first flickering to the lieutenant's smiling lips. She is laughing at me . . . he thought, but he realized, no she was amused with me, as her brows knitted together in compassion. No, she felt sorry for me.
"I seem to have a frog stuck in my throat. . . . What I mean to say is: How are you?" His voice had become calm and under his control again, and he sighed in relief as he finally spoke what he originally had intended. He had flushed as white as a sheet, and his burning cheeks really were defined as his entire attire was a white robe and a pale face. He looked like a blushing ghost.
Amelia bit her lip again with a twisted curiosity, and relied, "It's a bit tender—my nose, I mean. And as for myself—I am alright, now." She smirked, and let for eyes flicker over his person—just for added dramatics to make him aware it was his discomfort that made her 'alright'.
The chaplain blushed even harder as he watched the lieutenant's eyes defiled his body with curiosity. What is she playing at, he thought as her eyes finally connected back with his. There was definitely a hidden motive in her mind, and for some reason he found himself intrigued and curious about her. The little glint in her eye was interesting. And he wondered why she kept using his first name instead of his title of Father like everyone else. There was so many though-provoking aspects of this woman that he wanted know.
And Amelia could see the wheels beginning to turn in his head as she continued to stare him. But she couldn't help it. He had awakened something in her that she had forgotten about a long time ago. And there was this enticing little shy smile on his face that tempted Amelia to push the chaplain a little further out of his comfort zone.
"So John," she began, biting her lip again to suppress the visible pleasure she was getting out of making him nervous.
And he listened intently as she said his name in a kind of teasing manner.
"I hear you had an ex—"
"My, my, myyyy, would you look at this slice of heavenly pie—what a sight for my sore eye."
Upon hearing the ridged pick-up line, Amelia shifted her eyes over Doctor Pierce, of who strolled out of the mess tent and wrapped an encouraging arm around the chaplain's shoulder, where unlike the chaplain, his eyes never faulted away from her neckline. He chuckled impishly and gave the chaplain a 'nudge', of who looked almost terrified when Hawkeye winked at him, inferring to some kind of sexual innuendo. He blushed even harder when he added, "has our lovely little chaplain recruited another chorus girl—if so, Father, you can except me front row at every Sunday service."
Doctor Pierce had that low growl-chuckle in his voice as he laughed at his own joke. And if silence and irritation from both the chaplain and Amelia wasn't enough for him to get a clue, he added: "Hey babe that's a nice outfit you got on there, . . . can I talk you out of it."
Amelia rolled her eyes at his pathetic pick-up lines and an irritated frown formed on her lips as the womanizing doctor interrupted her conversation with the chaplain. Although admittingly, she was subjugating to the chaplain to the same perversion, but at least she kept it to thought and not action. And Amelia noticed the chaplain looked uncomfortable in the doctor's embrace as he used him for a leaning post to hit on her.
"Huh, I think I hear Mary—ah Lieutenant Baker," he correct himself quickly, sensing the inappropriateness of the atmosphere. "Calling for me. Please excuse please—" He mentally kicked himself as he nervously tripped over his tongue again, and escaped his embarrassment quickly disappearing back into the mess tent.
"Love a guy when he knows he's the third wheel and promptly leaves . . . "
Amelia rolled her eyes again in disbelief—He doesn't quit does he!? But she ignored him as her eyes followed after the chaplain. He had walked to Mary and stood besides her, shifty awkwardly as she talked with Charles Winchester—no doubt about her 'musical talents' . . . He looked sad and much like the third wheel Dr. Pierce described him as. It was evident that he had lied and excused himself merely to escape any further embarrassment—
Her sight become blurred with green-olive, and realized Dr. Pierce had stepped in front her line of sight. Amelia sighed exhaustively, and remarked with an edgy tone:
"Your eight-grade pick-up lines aren't going to work with me, babe. So quit while your head, and save yourself some rejection."
Her saucy retort seemed to enthrall his efforts rather than discourage them, and he replied with his impish chuckle, "I like a sassy-girl . . . so you headin' to the showers. I'm a environmentalist baby, and uh, we could save some water if we took one together."
Amelia scuffed out a breath, "You're absolutely impressed with yourself, aren't you!? Has that line ever work?"
He chuckled, and replied triumphantly: "Her," he nudged his head behind Amelia indicating the red-head woman walking across the compound. "And her," this time to a thin, long blonde. "And ah, her."
It seemed the only way she was going to dowse this flame he had for her, not with water and rejection, but more fire and torment. She smiled like that was most beautifulest thing she had ever heard, and pretended to be swept blinding underneath his childish charm.
"Oh, so you do have a way with the ladies," she said teasingly, and stepped close enough so her breast brushed against his chest. He laughed devilishly, and followed her 'lead'—it was amusing to Amelia that he actually thought his charm to seduce her was working on her.
He 'casually' hovered his hands over her hips, 'accidentally' brushing them when he shifted weight. "I am quite the ladies man."
"Hmm," she hummed in her throat, making him think of possible possible doubt. "I don't now if I can just take your word for it."
"Well, I wouldn't mind giving you a personal demonstration."
Amelia giggled devilishly like he did, and suddenly clenched his shirt in her hand, and pulled him to her level, and whispered in his ear an undeniable haunting voice: "I would like that, but—and don't feel bad baby, you wouldn't be able to handle me."
It was as if time stood still again. Amelia happened to flick her eyes over his shoulder, focusing beyond the mess netting, through the haze, and directly to the chaplain, who also happen to be meeting her gaze. He had been fiddling with some papers at his podium when his eyes flickered curiously over to Dr. Pierce and her—finding the two of them very close and in what appeared to be an imitate embrace. And for that moment, after Amelia had delivered that enticing line into Dr Pierce's ear, their eyes met and held for a conscious second, (both thinking what the other may have been thinking) . . . before his eyes flickered away and he fidgeted out of her sight. It all happened within a snapped of her fingers and he was gone.
After watching the chaplain walk away, Amelia pushed away from the doctor, and started towards the showers again, leaving Dr. Pierce with his mouth gaping open and his eyes following after her, stunned and unfortunately more intrigued and curious than before.
"The more you push me away, the more I want you. . . . you have my heart in the palm of your hand and you're using it like a voodoo doll—your torturing me and you like it, don't you."
As Amelia crossed the compound, and stepped into the shower tent, she had felt two sets of eyes follow after her. Although she had just come from a successful tease off with Doctor Pierce, Amelia couldn't but let her mind wonder to the chaplain. For some reason she couldn't make sense that he striked her curiosity. She didn't know what about him that made her feel like a school-girl again, but his forbidding presence enticed her.
These thoughts about the chaplain rattled her brain for the duration of her shower, but broke as she heard a loud, gritty voice thundered over head:
"Attention! All personal! Incoming wounded! Report to Pre-OP. Sorry Father Mulcahy. But your service is needed in O.R."
The Forbidden Fruit
Author's Notes: So it seems Amelia is establishing some relationships even though she had no intention of doing so. Hmmm? And thanks to those whose sent me feedback on the last chapter! It always helps propel me into the next chapter. And please excuse any errors I may have missed. And thank you readers and hoped you enjoyed the blushes and the bad pickup lines ;)
