A/N: Thanks to those of you who've been reading along and to those of you who've been providing me with feedback! I really appreciate it and it has made its way into this chapter! This is a pretty long chapter, by the way! Please be sure to read the notes at the end of this chapter!
CHAPTER 10 – DOOR CIRCUMSTANCES
"Makes a good wall to keep out the wind, eh, Beej?" Hawkeye commented from his cot, as he and Hunnicutt admired their handiwork to protect the Swamp from the frigid icy rain and the snowy gusts. After returning from the Officers Club a while ago, they'd strung Charles's damp blanket over the netted front walls of the Swamp.
Hunnicutt stood up and moved to the blanket, lifting it up at the bottom to peek at the accumulation.
"Wow, Hawk, looks like it snowed more than half a foot out there!" he gasped, lifting the blanket high enough for Hawkeye to see the solid white behind it. "You ever see anything like that?"
"You forget that I'm from Maine," Hawkeye replied. "Never thought we'd be getting Crabapple Cove's usual winter weather."
"You mean, you're actually used to this?" Hunnicutt remarked. "I wish I had a camera so I could send a picture of this to Peg. I know Erin would be amazed."
"Course I'm used to this. When I was a kid, we'd go sled-riding in this kind of weather."
"It'd be hard to walk up a steep hill over and over again with that much snow," Hunnicutt commented, shaking his head at the pile that had formed outside the Swamp's front wall.
"What are you talking about? We only had to walk up it once."
"Huh? Did you have some kind of pulley to get you back up to the top or something?"
"Nah—we'd sled down once and spend the next half-hour or so digging ourselves out of the snow bank we'd run into until it was time for lunch. Ahh, memories."
B.J. smiled at his friend. "Sounds like I really missed out."
"Is this some kind of cruel prank, Major?" Winchester snarled, as he shoved the door with both arms in an attempt to open it. "Open this door this instant!"
"I already unlocked it, you nincompoop! Push harder!"
He shoved with all his strength against the door with no result.
"Don't toy with me, Margaret. Now, open this… incompetent door!"
"Are you kidding me? It's not the door—we're snowed in!" she shrieked. "Are you implying that I willed the clouds to come here and dump a heap of snow on us?"
"Perhaps if we both push we can open it," Winchester huffed, frowning at the door. Without another word Margaret joined him and they both shoved on the door. It didn't so much as budge. She stepped back with a sigh of frustration, crossing her arms as she stared at the immobile door.
"Help!" Charles suddenly cried, slamming his fists on the door. "Get me out of here! I need help!"
"Keep it down," Margaret hissed. "I thought you wanted your dalliances kept secret."
"To hell with that!" he yelped, pressing his upper arms against the wood of the door as if attempting to embrace it. "I have to get out of here! Can anybody hear me out there? Save me!" Again he pounded his fists on the wood.
"Ha, go ahead and yell. You can hear the wind whipping around out there like a tornado. No way will they hear you. Kill your voice, for all I care."
"Let me out of here!" he roared, his fists thudding frantically on the door. "For the love of all that is holy, somebody save me!"
"Shut the hell up, Major!"
Suddenly, he felt a sharp tug at his waistline and he was being pulled away from the door with surprising force. He could have sworn that the lights had flickered, but it could have been due to the shock of the sudden grab.
"You are being ridiculous," Margaret growled, moving her hands to her hips. "You came here on your own volition and now you're acting like I kidnapped you. Stop being such a big baby. Sit down."
He looked about the room with a hopeless expression, so despondent that he didn't even notice that he hadn't put his shirt back on.
"Where?" he asked dully.
"Where else? On the bed. Looks as if we're stuck here for awhile, so I'm going to get—"
"Margaret, as I said before, I refuse to—"
She rolled her eyes at him as she interrupted him mid-sentence.
"Don't flatter yourself. I'm getting some champagne for myself."
"Champagne?" he sputtered.
"Yep. A 1947 Dom Pérignon."
His face lit up with mention of the expensive product.
"And from whom did you purloin that?"
"I'm no Winchester but I'm not destitute, Major. It was from my honeymoon. Didn't even open it."
"Ha—how could you not open a 1947 Dom—"
"Donald and I kept busy." A fierce blush crept across her face at the thought of their marathon sessions. "So do you want any? 'Cause I'm having some, whether or not you're going to."
A ghost of a smile flickered across his face as he answered her.
"I could not refuse such refinement."
"Well, sit down and let me open it," she replied with a dismissive wave of her hand. His eyes followed her as she squatted down by her foot locker, noticing the sheen of a corkscrew as she began twisting it into the cork. Perhaps this evening was not totally lost. Culture and class still remained in Margaret's tent, even though she herself failed to display it. He leaned over to her makeshift nightstand and picked up two fluted glasses. What a night this had turned into: a failed chapter reenactment turned into an occasion for vintage champagne!
"I'm gonna hit the latrines," Hawkeye commented, standing up in the Swamp and slipping on his burgundy robe. Hunnicutt looked up from a book he'd been reading.
"Better make sure no one's in them first."
The dark-haired doctor went to the door, turned the knob, and pushed. The door was stuck shut! This time he thrust his elbow into the wood, leading to a rather pained yelp. B.J. made a face of confusion.
"I thought you said you were going to hit the latrines, not the door, Hawk."
"It's frozen shut," Hawkeye explained, indicating the door as he rubbed his sore elbow. "Won't budge."
The mustached doctor shrugged, unaffected. "Run at it."
"From where? Three feet away? That's all I can manage in this cell."
"Couldn't hurt."
"The door, you mean. It'll hurt me plenty, as it already has."
"Well, cut your way out. Netting in winter's gotta be good for something, eh?"
"You're a genius," Hawkeye replied, throwing his hands in the air. "Do you have a knife I could borrow?"
"Sure," B.J. replied. He put down the book and went to his foot locker, squatting down in front of the chest. Suddenly everything went pitch black.
"Did you cut the power?" Hawkeye's voice called out. "What happened?"
"I don't know. Maybe the snow dislodged some power-lines."
"Too bad we aren't as good with electric lines as we are with arteries," Hawkeye commented, shaking his head.
"Great," B.J. muttered, "so not only are we snowed in but we're also blacked out… until further notice."
Pierce pulled back Winchester's blanket to show the blizzard. "Well, you know what this means, Beej. We gotta check on the patients in post-op, stat!"
"Very funny, Margaret," came the voice of Charles in the pitch black tent. He took a languid sip of the champagne in his hand, hearing the characteristic fizzing of the beverage as he lifted it to his lips. The champagne was exceptional even at its suboptimal temperature, but that was most likely due to its vintage. "Now, if you please—"
"I didn't do it!" she shot back, her voice followed by a thud and pained yelp as she evidently ran into something.
"Ugh, could this evening possibly get any worse?" Charles moaned, cupping his forehead with his free hand. Suddenly he felt Margaret's hand on his thigh and flinched at the unexpected touch. "Kindly unhand me, Maj—"
"I can't see," she interrupted. "Give me a second to sit down, dammit."
Soon the pressure of her hand was off of his thigh and he could sense her sitting down next to him on the bed, the fabric of her robe rubbing up against him.
"Where's the champagne?" he muttered, a bit frightened that it had toppled over during Margaret's journey over to the bed.
"It's safe, Major. I'm glad you're concerned about the safety of at least one thing in my tent."
"What are you talking about?" he said with a chuckle. "You're fine. You know this place like the back of your hand."
"I moved some things around, if you'll recall," she replied bitterly, followed by the sound of her sipping from her glass.
"Ah, that's right."
He sat in silence, sipping the exquisite champagne in the pitch blackness. At sensing a chill run up his spine, he touched his chest to find that he hadn't put his shirt back on. What an odd occasion indeed this was.
"Oh, crap!" Margaret suddenly exclaimed. "The patients, Charles!"
"What of them—oh, the patients." He stood up with a start, hearing her standing up beside him. He stuck a hand out into blackness. "Mind the champagne bottle," he cautioned her.
"If I want to spill it, I'll spill it," she growled. "This is my tent."
"Indeed, but that would be an impetuous decision," he replied. "Champagne aside, we must get out of here, Margaret. For our sake and for the sake of the patients. Who will check on the patients if everyone is stuck in their respective tents?"
"Well, can you get to the door? You have more of a chance than I do of getting it open."
"I am not well-versed in the layout of your quarters, Margaret."
He felt a hand grab his forearm, as Margaret let out a sigh of frustration.
"Hold onto my back and I'll lead us to the door," she offered. Rolling his eyes in the blackness, he acquiesced, placing a hand on her back. Carefully he set his champagne glass on the nightstand, ensuring that the surface was there before letting go of the half-filled glass. She took a step forward as he prayed silently that the bottle of Dom Pérignon on the floor would stay upright throughout this whole fiasco.
"What about your windows?" he asked, remembering the small square windows of her room.
"They don't open," she replied. "They're made of this unbreakable double-pane plastic and even if we were to get them open or break them, I doubt either of us could fit through one."
"You might be able to slither those hips of yours through," he muttered lowly, the hand he had on her back relocating to the curve of her hip, his imagination running wild in the process. At the surprise and enjoyment of hearing no dissention from her, he continued to speak. "It'd be a tight fit to be sure. You'd probably have to disrobe and go through it head-first. Of course, I'd insist on holding a flashlight on you so you'd be aware of your positioning the entire time."
"Ha, not on your life," she said, smiling to herself. Major Winchester did have some very interesting ideas in that big head of his. "Besides, I don't think I even have a working flashlight or lantern—probably just a candle."
"A candle would suff—"
"No."
"I could very easily break a window, Major," he insisted. "And if you needed more lubrication to better slide through the window, I would gladly slather some lotion on your—"
"Don't you know the meaning of the word no?" she replied, grinning broadly though he couldn't see it. "Besides, you lost any chance of that earlier. All you had to do was take off your—"
"I'll do it now," he offered, his voice lilting upwards.
"You're only saying that because I can't see you anymore. You'll be dressed completely in black."
"But you'll know better, Margaret. I'll even let you hold my clothing as I rub lotion all over your—"
"Drop it," she retorted. She heard him take in a sharp breath and clarified her statement. "The subject, not your pants."
"I just thought of something," Charles muttered to himself as they took two steps without upsetting the bottle. "Pierce and Hunnicutt can get out of the Swamp even if the door is frozen shut. They can just cut through the netting. At least they'll be able to make it over to post-op, even if we can't."
"I hadn't thought of that," Margaret muttered. "While we're already here, we can try banging on the door and maybe they'll hear us. For now, I'm putting my uniform back on. You don't need to get any more ideas in that head of yours."
Hawkeye and B.J. trudged through the snowdrifts, which were more than a foot high at the base of the buildings and tents. A thick layer of ice coated the snow, making their walk a very loud, crunchy walk as their boots sank through the heavy layers of precipitation. Not only that, but the snow was still coming down like a blizzard, whipping around their heads and making normal conversation between them impossible. The lack of all lights on the compound made it very difficult to tell where they were going and thick gray clouds hid all evidence of the moon.
"I think I can find it by distance alone!" Hawkeye yelled out through the whipping winds.
"That makes one of us!" B.J. yelled back. "We'll probably have to dig the door out! It's probably going to be stuck shut like ours!"
"What a great way to prep my hands for the patients, by turning them into ice cubes!" Hawkeye shouted back.
"Do you think anyone else can get out of their tents to get to the patients?" B.J. yelled, his moustache and eyebrows completely frozen.
"Nah. I think we're all they've got! Except for Klinger, of course. Didn't think of him."
"What's he gonna do? They'd either need shots or IVs, and he hates needles!"
Pierce responded, his face covered with the sleeve of his robe to protect his face from the bitter winds as he tucked his icy hands inside the garment.
"Speaking of someone who needs shot, where do you think Winchester is?"
Hunnicutt shrugged, keeping his head low to avoid inhaling a gust of frigid air.
"He probably planned this all along so he wouldn't have to get his boots wet! Probably laughing his head off somewhere on this compound!"
"Help! Let us out of here! Anybody! Mayday!"
The fists of Majors Houlihan and Winchester thudded against the wood of the door, the edge of their hands occasionally striking the same area. At this, they would sigh and scoot away from each other until Charles was eventually not banging on the door; rather, the wall. He almost tripped on something soft and realized his clothes were still lying on the floor in a heap. Quickly he bent down to retrieve the articles.
"Hawkeye!" Margaret yelled. "B.J.! Are you out there?" Without even putting an ear to the door, the only thing she could hear was the sound of loud gusts of wind. She needed to be louder, to compete with the torrents of wind outside. With a loud indiscriminate yell, she pulled back her leg and kicked at the door, glad she'd slipped her steel-toed combat boots back on. Instead of her boot striking against the rigidity of the door, it connected with something far softer.
"Aughhhhhh!"
Two thuds soon followed: the sound of a large, soft object striking the door and the sound of something large collapsing on the ground. Margaret could faintly hear the sound of whimpering coming from a position near the floor.
"Major Winchester?"
Another whimper, followed by a choked sob. Margaret squatted down where she stood, stretching her arms out in front of her in the utter blackness. Her fingers touched bare skin, probably the side of Winchester's waist.
"Oh God; I think you broke my ribs," a quavering voice murmured, the breaths accompanying the speech ragged and uneven. "I can't—breathe."
"Calm down," she commanded, lightly moving her hand on his skin. "Where did I kick you?"
Within a moment his hand was on top of hers, guiding her to the spot. Once her hand had arrived at the place, she prodded for the presence of ribs.
"Aughhhh! What the hell are you doing?" he shouted in a hoarse voice, his hand grabbing hers and moving it away from the place. "If I wanted to stab my liver, I could do so myself, and far less painfully!"
"There aren't any ribs where I kicked you," she replied matter-of-factly. She heard him groan dramatically.
"Not anymore, there aren't!"
"Charles, listen. I think my foot landed right under your ribcage. I don't think any bones are broken, but I can check to be sure."
With that, she knelt down at his side and gently prodded the area where she'd inadvertently kicked him. For such a large man, he certainly surprised her time and time again with his need to be coddled. It was probably from all the spoiling he'd had as a child. She found herself humming like a mother would comfort a crying baby.
The strange events of earlier had been a test of the extent Charles Winchester would go to obey her. He'd certainly gotten further than she thought he would. Even so, he failed at the final step by not only refusing a reasonable request, but by insulting her in turn with a truthful statement. If her father had known how many generals and colonels she'd had to lie under to get where she was today, he'd be ashamed of her. The fact that Charles Winchester had pointed out her promiscuous past in such a callous and flippant way had hurt her more than she'd admit.
Even so, Winchester was now allowing her to coddle him—and coddling was her specialty. She could recall several of her jackets with the dried tears of Frank Burns on them. Her hands had gotten very strong from all the shoulder massages she'd give Major Burns when he was irritable or anxious. Needless to say, she was almost always comforting that man in some way.
"It's okay…. Shhh," she murmured soothingly. "Just a little pressure and I'll be all over."
It was then that Charles recalled that time when his back had gone out on him and he'd been laid up in the Swamp with Margaret tending to him for hours on end. She'd insisted on moist heat, placing damp washcloths on his lower back and later, even feeding him. It was absurd—he hadn't been treated like that since he was a teenager!
"I'm not an infant, Major," he muttered, attempting to move. She pushed her fingers into the flesh of his mid-abdomen and he whimpered.
"Shhhh. Everything will be alright. I know just the thing for this," she said quietly.
"A cold pack?"
There was a pause, and though it was pitch black, Charles could picture Margaret smiling in the darkness.
"Exactly," she replied. "It's a shame we can't open the door, because there's plenty of snow outside. Now, let's see… I don't think I have any water. What could I—right, I could wet a balled-up washcloth with a drop or two out of this bottle—"
His eyes widened at what she'd said.
"I hope you aren't referring to the Dom Pérignon, Margaret."
"The very thing."
"Surely you jest."
"No—just stay here, and I'm going to find a washcloth."
"I assure you; that won't be needed," he replied, reaching out in the darkness and clamping his hand on her wrist. "My pain is not worth the spilling of that most precious of commodities."
"We need to prevent the bruising because it's going to hurt for a while, Charles. What do you recommend for pain relief, hmm?"
Charles slowly began to pull himself into a seated position with his back against the door, the acute throbbing dying down slightly. Perhaps something could be salvaged from this miserable night.
"I could drink the champagne," he murmured. "It'd be a very effective analgesic."
"I'm not letting you have the whole thing! You can forget about it, buster!"
"Mere moments ago, you were going to pour it out on a washcloth—"
"Yeah, less than half a glass!"
"You kicked me—"
"You got in the way of my foot! You're not going to guilt trip me, Major!"
"Well, can I have my glass at least?"
A pause, as if she was considering. With great care he leaned against the door, pulling an article of clothing from beneath him and covering his upper body with it.
"Where did you put it?" she muttered irritably, voice far softer than before.
"On your… nightstand," he muttered. He heard a sharp exhalation and footfalls from Major Houlihan's boots. The clink of a glass against a fingernail. He held his breath, releasing it when nothing more was heard but footfalls.
"Raise your hand so I can give it to you without tripping on you," Margaret huffed. Immediately he complied, soon feeling the neck of the glass in his reach. He curled his fingers around it as she released it. Before she could say anything else, he raised the glass to his lips and drank the rest. No use giving her a chance to change her mind about that.
The drink of his salvation now gone, Charles listened intently for Margaret's next move. A couple of thuds and muttered curse words, and he was soon aware of the sound of sloshing liquid, followed by the sound of liquid being poured into a glass. The whole event had taken place quite close to him and yet he couldn't see a thing.
"Margaret, could I have more of—"
"No chance." She was standing directly beside him.
"Please, Margaret," he murmured. "I implore you." He reached out his hand and touched something—her leg. "I'll pay you—ten dollars for a glass."
"I don't want your money."
"Then what do you want? Major, there must be some way I can convince you. I cannot be expected to spend an inordinate amount of time in this frigid ice-hole without some kind of restitution."
Klinger sat ramrod straight in his bed, his office enveloped in total darkness.
"Colonel?" he called out. "Anyone there?"
After fumbling around in the dark, he soon lit a candle. He could hear the winds howling outside as he made his way for the door. He attempted to open it to no avail. Several more times he attempted to open the door, but it was stuck. Sighing, he strode to his desk and pulled out the phone. If the whole compound was out of power, that meant that the O.R. and post-op ward were black as well.
After attempting to connect with I-Corps, he hung up and tried again. His attempts to call out were for naught. The phone lines were dead.
"Great," he muttered, throwing his arms up in the air. "Now what? I guess I could check on the patients, but all I can do is wake 'em up."
"Frozen shut!" Hawkeye yelled towards the mustached surgeon as he yanked at the door to the post-op ward.
"How do you suppose we get in there?" B.J. shouted back, a gust of snow blowing into his mouth as he spoke. He spit the snow out and wiped his mouth off with the sleeve of his coat, which was not thick enough to keep him adequately warm.
"We can't pound on the doors or the patients will get antsy!" Hawkeye yelled. "I think we're going to have to dig around the door to try to clear the snow and ice away!"
"Did you bring a stick?"
"No, did you?"
"Dammit—so we're gonna have to do this with our hands," Hunnicutt muttered, looking at his upturned palms. "Goodbye, pinky. After tonight, I'll probably have to rename you Bluey."
"Either that or stumpy," Pierce retorted, holding up his own frostbitten hand. "Be honest, Beej; do I still have five fingers? I can't feel three of 'em!"
"Well, at least you can still order two drinks or give someone rabbit ears. I'll be lucky if I can pick up a spoon after tonight."
"Are you kidding me? With the slop they serve up in the mess tent, you'd be lucky not to pick up a spoon!"
A/N: Now, this is very very important. If you haven't reviewed before, please consider reviewing now, especially if it's something you feel strongly for/against. This next chapter is gearing up to be a bit of a kinky CM. If you'd rather me spare the details of it, I will summarize and shorten (and maybe even think about rewriting if you'd like to make a convincing argument against it happening). If you want the full monty, please let me know. Do know that the "scene" happens completely in the dark. If it was a TV episode, it wouldn't be nearly as descriptive or risqué as writing it makes it, being as it does happen in the dark. Anyway, I really really need your feedback! Simple majority rules! And if only one reviewer comments on it, I'll just have to wait for more, because based on the hit count on this story, there is more than one reader!
So to make the voting process simple: a bit of a kinky CM scene—yea or nay?
Of course, if you have any other comments, let me know. (you know, the standard dialogue/characterization/flow that I want to be sure isn't out-of-range for the characters to say/do)
By the way, for those of you merely sticking it out until the HM, there is HM coming; I promise! In this fic, it happens 'tomorrow night' (if you consider what's up above as "tonight") and then again later on.