When Charlotte went with Kellye to Klinger's tent, she saw the first snowflakes start falling. The air was still, so they dropped in little swirls, landing in her tent mate's hair to gleam like little gems. Charlotte looked up, eyes big.
"Snow," Kellye made a face. "Gonna make everything harder now, ugh. Give me good tropical weather any day."
"I know but it's pretty just the same," Charlotte murmured. "I've never seen it before."
Kellye grinned. "It's just rain dressed up for a party. Come on."
Inside, Klinger smiled brightly. "Snow already? Sheesh, I thought we had another week before that started falling! Come in, come in, I got your prints."
As they stepped inside, Klinger waved them to the empty cot and bustled around with a manila folder. "Good thing I got these done before things started freezing. First, the curlers."
Kellye pulled the satin pouch out from her jacket. "Let's see the goods."
Sighing, Klinger handed over the folder. "All twelve shots, and I gotta ask why so many of the signpost, Lieutenant?"
"Because Honolulu isn't on it and I'm going to fix that," she told him. "I'm sending a photo to each one of my uncles and one of them is gonna make me a sign to add."
Klinger grinned again. "You could get someone here to do it."
She shook her head. "I want one with the correct spelling and mileage on it."
Klinger rolled his eyes and put away the curlers, leaving Charlotte and Kellye to look through the photos. Charlotte spotted the three of her and Charles, lifting them up gently to stare.
The pair of them standing together looked faintly silly and it made her realize exactly how much of a height difference they had. Being cuddled up against him made her look even smaller and she shook her head.
The second one where she was on his lap and laughing though—that one truly did look sweet. While Charles' expression looked straight-faced at her giggles, his eyes were bright.
And the last one made her blush. As the heat crept over her face, Charlotte bit her lower lip, caught up in the sight of their kiss, perfectly framed in the shot.
"Wow, hot stuff!" Kellye broke into her thoughts. "That's a keeper right there!"
"You said it," Klinger agreed. "Frankly I didn't think the major was the romantic type, but congratulations, Lieutenant. Should I be requisitioning lace and chiffon soon?"
"No," Charlotte muttered, trying to look composed and failing. "But I'd like to get some extra prints of these three . . . I'll pay of course."
Klinger gave her a grin. "Whatcha go to trade?"
"An unopened jar of Pond's."
"Done!" Klinger nodded. "Come back in a few days and I'll have 'em ready for you."
Charlotte tucked away the photos into her shirt pocket and followed Kellye out again. The snow was coming down much more thickly now, and they hurried towards their tent through the falling flakes. Once inside, Kellye shook her dark hair and made a beeline for her trunk, fishing out envelopes. "Okay, I have to get stamps and some pen cartridges, you need anything?"
"No I'm fine," Charlotte told her, settling on her bunk. She pulled the photos out again, oddly reluctant to send even one of them away in a letter, even though Charlotte knew she'd be getting copies in a few days. They were . . . proof now.
A thought struck her. Inspiration.
Sitting up again, she fished under her bunk for her pastels, rooting though them to see what sort of a palette she had left. The box was there along with a few pads of paper, carefully stacked together. Laying the middle photo out on the little camp table, Charlotte took a breath and began to lightly sketch on the first empty page.
Her concentration was so intense that it took the blare of the PA system making announcements a few hours later that moved Charlotte to look up. She flexed her stiff fingers, absently wiping the soft smudges from them on the edge of her cot as she set down the pad. Shivering a little, Charlotte grabbed her coat and slipped it on, walking around to get some circulation going once more.
She glanced over at the pad, feeling slightly pleased at her progress and moved it back under her cot just as a knock came on the doorframe. Peeking out, Charlotte saw Charles there, bundled up against the flakes.
"I've come to ask you to dinner," he told her. "Not that what they serve in the mess tent truly qualifies as such."
"Oh! Is it that late already?" She glanced past him at the glittering semi-darkness. Snow had already frosted most of the landscape behind Charles, giving it a glow. "Well if you're sure . . . let me get a scarf."
They trudged across the compound together, close enough to share some warmth before reaching the mess tent. Inside people were clustered about, most of them chatting. Charles guided her in front of him as they joined the line. "Were we in Boston," he murmured, "We would have a table at Parker's and I would introduce you to the delectable delight that is baked scrod."
"And were we in San Francisco we would be seated at Alioto's on the wharf having bowls of cioppino with sourdough bread," Charlotte assured him. What is scrod?"
"Young fresh cod or haddock, split lengthwise and broiled," Charles told her, a hint of longing in his voice. "I'm not sure of the specifics, recipe-wise, but the taste is memorable. What is cioppino?"
"A tomato-y soup of fish, clams, crab, scallop, shrimp and mussels," Charlotte sighed. "Alioto's makes one of the best."
"That sounds worth trying," Charles replied thoughtfully. "Seafood is one of the things I miss most about being stationed here, truly."
"Oh yes," she agreed. "Part of the reason I miss San Francisco so much. Just breathing in the salty air off the ocean or hearing the waves in the distance . . . all those little background details you don't realize you miss until they're not there."
Charles handed her a tray. "Perhaps that's why we both like that spot by the creek."
She nodded. Across the dining area Charlotte spotted Carole Able frowning at her and the sight made her freeze. Charles bumped against her as the line tried to move; Charlotte tried to turn but they ended up hitting trays with a metallic 'clunk.'
"What's wrong?" came his question when they'd finally gotten resituated and picked up plates.
"Nothing," Charlotte lied. "I'm just . . . cold. Maybe I'm coming down with something. Maybe I should just take a cup of soup and head back to my tent."
Charles said nothing but she felt him watching her, and when they'd gotten their meals—meatloaf, reconstituted potatoes—he stayed close behind as she led the way around the edge of the tent to a far corner.
They sat, and when Charlotte shot a surreptitious look towards Carole, Charles caught it.
"What is going on?" he rumbled quietly. "The truth this time."
She looked down at her food. "I did mention there are folks who think we, ah, shouldn't be . . . together."
"Ah," came Charles' dry reply. "So that explains Lieutenant Able's less than enchanting expression."
"Yes. Apparently I'm the angel of death who will jinx you."
"Bosh and nonsense," he growled. "Superstitious twaddle not worth saying, much less believing. If a patient dies despite my best efforts then I accept that fact as fact. There is no blame, only circumstances beyond our powers. If a patient dies because of my mistakes, I accept that too, painful as it is because that does and will happen despite my wishing it was not so. We're all of us human, despite our wishes, and yes, hubris will always be my particular bugbear."
Charlotte looked up at him, feeling soothed. "I think going to services has been good for you."
Charles gave a considering nod. "Perhaps," he admitted. "Although part of it is simply growing closer to you. I'm still a snob and very set in my ways, but I like to think myself capable of growing and learning over time."
"Which is why you are charming and fun and I'm going to steal that dinner roll off your plate," Charlotte told him, finally smiling.