A man with charm is a very dangerous thing.
MASH Unit 4077. January, 1951.
Worn, well-worked fingers skimmed her waist. He lifted her with ease and set her on the table. It wobbled; she fell closer still. He smelled of aftershave and gunpowder. She tilted her head back, allowing him better access to the hollow of her throat. He got the hint, obliged, his mouth warm and wet.
She shuddered.
Her hands weaved through his hair as his lips moved across her skin. The soft tendrils slipped through her grasp like water. With a gentle tug to his hair, she brought their lips together. The arm around her waist tightened. His heartbeat drummed against her chest. She pulled away to catch her breath, eager to study his face, the breadth of his shoulders, the muscles in his arms. When he spoke, labored whispers told her he was just as affected by her as she was by him.
"You kiss by the book," he said.
In the rays of moonlight streaming through the window, she hoped he could see her smile. "Did you just quote Shakespeare?"
"I'm a Brit. The Bard runs through our very blood."
He settled his mouth over hers again, his earlier gentlemanly caresses dissolving into frenzied touches and—
Virginia woke with a start. She bolted upright, chest heaving as she struggled to even her breathing. Cold sweat clung to her body; her mouth was dry. A dull ache pounded in her belly.
Jiminy Cricket! She'd just dreamt of a man other than her husband! She'd only had a brief conversation with Clark; nevertheless, here she was imagining him kissing her, touching her…
She threw back the covers and planted her feet on solid ground. Her head fell to her hands and she all but groaned. After hours cutting into, rearranging, and repairing underage soldiers, all she wanted was a good night's rest, a dreamless sleep. She would rather a nightmare—an insane clown or surgery gone wrong—than an all-too-vivid dream of another man. Yet…
If she thought hard enough, she could still feel his fingers ghost over her skin. And if she concentrated well, she could still hear him murmur in the darkness sweet nothings about the future.
Banishing the memories from her mind, Virginia jumped from bed and shoved her arms in her dressing gown. The silky fabric cooled her hot skin. Something in the gown's pocket bumped her leg as she tip-toed toward the door, careful not to wake Margaret. After fishing in the pocket, she withdrew a silver bracelet. The dainty chain swung back and forth as she held it up to inspect. A round sapphire gem, her birthstone, winked at her in the moonlight. At once the chain grew warm as shame flooded her body. Virginia cursed under her breath and shoved the bracelet in the pocket.
The first gift Hawkeye had ever given her. She'd lost it over a year earlier. At least, she thought she had… Of course she would find it after having inappropriate dreams of someone other than him.
With a cocktail of irritation and hedonism brewing in her stomach, Virginia stalked toward the post-op ward. Her feet, covered only by a pair of black slippers, slushed through the snow too stubborn to melt. Inside the ward, she removed the wet shoes and padded on her bare feet into the recovery room. Bile rose to her throat when she saw the doctor on night duty.
Hawkeye.
He turned from his current patient as the door closed, shock overtaking his features. The white lab coat he so seldom wore gave him the appearance of a professional rather than an insufferable flirt and practical jokester. The folder under his arm looked bloated with paperwork. A stub pencil behind his ear dared her to throw a snide remark at his penchant for ignoring his more menial duties.
She could turn, leave, crawl under her covers, and return to a dreamland with a man who wanted her. Or she could stay, face the man who had wanted her once but no longer, and find a modicum of usefulness in this useless war.
She decided to stay.
"Good evening," she said as she passed him.
He stood, grabbed his stool, and followed as she made her way down the aisle. "It's actually… three o'clock in the morning. Couldn't sleep?"
She hummed in response as she came to the bed she wanted. Her eyes scanned the clipboard hanging from the bar. Private Nathaniel Jones. Twenty-one. DOB: 7/18/29. Injury: Gun and shrapnel wounds to the upper-chest cavity.
The day before she'd performed the intense procedure alongside Margaret to remove the shrapnel from his chest. Whatever humor they had walked into the operating room with had fled the moment they saw his wounds. Now, almost ten hours after the six-hour operation, Virginia couldn't help but worry.
At the moment, Private Jones slept soundly. A mop of sandy blond hair, round cheeks, and jawline marked with pimples instead of stubble made him look more youth than man. However, the purple heart pinned to his shoulder bespoke his place among the bravest of mankind. Dark bruises covered one half of his face, and his chest rose and fell at an uneven pace. No, she reminded herself, he wasn't in the clear yet.
She sat on the bedside. The springs creaked. Nathaniel's brow furrowed.
"Can I borrow your stethoscope?"
On the other side of the bed, Hawkeye sat on his stool, the file of papers open on his lap. He glanced up at her question then handed her the instrument. She listened to Nathaniel's heart, its beat faint but steady. She listened to his lungs and pulled away, sighing.
"His lungs are struggling," she said.
Hawkeye shut the folder and reached for the stethoscope. After listening for himself, he shrugged. "Doesn't sound serious to me. You did a hell of a job on him. And I mean that in a good way."
"Eighteen pieces of shrapnel. I'm not even positive if I got everything it was so messy. His insides were like…"
"Meatballs," he supplied, his voice flat.
"Yeah… meatballs." Virginia rubbed a hand through her hair as her eyes studied the wounded soldier. A lump formed in her throat, and she found herself taking her patient's hand. It felt cold between her palms. "He looks like Billy," she whispered.
The air stilled. She turned, watched Hawkeye's face twist in the memory of their seventeen-year-old neighbor, killed in a hunting accident. Billy's father had brought him to their home, his hunter's outfit drenched in his son's blood. Hawkeye blamed the three miles between the Robertson home and their secluded cottage; he claimed he could have saved the boy had they lived closer. But by the time Albert Robertson knocked on their door, Billy was gone, succumbed to the bullet wound in his shoulder.
A tear slipped down her cheek. She brushed it away. "He probably would have been here had he lived," she said. "In Korea, I mean. He was always so patriotic, like Frank in a way."
Hawkeye shifted on his stool. His dog tags jingled as he dipped his head.
Virginia's hand tightened as more tears pooled in her vision. Blast it! She couldn't cry—not in front of him. Sitting straight, she managed a harsh laugh and dragged her hand under her nose.
"I remember the time he watched Remington when we went to visit my family—only he didn't mention he was allergic to cats. His eyes were swollen to high heaven and he was covered in a rash from head to foot when we got home." Her laugh sounded taut with restrained emotion. "You were so angry with him! 'Goddammit, Billy!' you said. 'You shouldn't have said yes if you're allergic to the damn thing! Your eyes are big enough to carry you away like balloons.'"
She shook her head as her laughter subsided, the memory sweet, the sting of what came after bitter. "How could we know he'd be shot only days later? The rash hadn't even…" Pulling in a sharp breath, her eyes darted to Hawkeye. He sat still, immobile, unmoved as he stared at the soldier in bed. When she spoke, her voice was thin and breakable. "How many more Billys will I have to sew up before this is all over?"
He rose from his seat without a word. A muscle in his jaw ticked. Virginia stared at him, waiting, watching for his lips to part and a single word of kindness to fill the void between them. She wasn't asking for much, just reassurance she wasn't the only one on the verge of insanity. In days gone by, he'd been quick to kiss her head and talk her down at the slightest hint of uncertainty. Now he stood like a statue, his face all but blank. She'd never seen him so emotionless. Her wedding ring, nestled between his tags, taunted her, reminded her of the time he'd cared.
"Ben?" Her voice cracked and, at the sound, his attention shot to her. Her hand moved of its own accord and reached for him. When her fingertips grazed his skin, he stepped back, his chest filling with air, his shoulders at attention. She stood. "Hawkeye—"
The door banged open and a sleepy Radar stumbled in, rubbing his eyes beneath his glasses. Relief flooded Hawkeye's face. He practically ran to the corporal's side.
Virginia bit her lip. She tasted metal as blood trickled on her tongue. She wouldn't cry. She mustn't cry.
"Oh, hey, Captain Pierce." Radar's sleep-coated voice broke through Virginia's concentration. "If you're here, I guess I'll tell you, too. General McArthur may be coming to visit us what with the special forces here and all. Isn't that wild?" His eager smile faltered. "You okay, ma'am?"
Hell.
The first of her tears fell at Radar's innocent question. She was powerless to stop them. They rushed down her cheeks in a traitorous display of Hawkeye's hold over her heart. Salt mingled with the taste of metal in her mouth.
"Gee…" Radar glanced over his shoulder. Hawkeye, seeing her tears, inched forward, concern pushing through his mask of disinterest.
A sob worked its way up Virginia's throat. Before it escaped, she shoved it down, holding her hand against her mouth. She had to get out of there. She couldn't stand to look at him any longer. Turning on her heel, she tore from the hospital. Her slippers skidded on the freshly cleaned floor, but she made her way into the cold night air before she could fall on her face. Once outside, she pulled the bracelet from her pocket and threw it into the darkness. A pling sounded when the jewelry hit rock and brush. She stood still then, her cheeks growing stiff as her tears froze. Numbness stiffened her body.
"Captain Pierce?"
Virginia startled. She turned. Father Mulcahy stood in the yellow light of a nearby lamppost. His eyes scanned her lack of uniform and proper dress for the weather, and a crease appeared on his brow. He stepped forward, away from the light, and entered her darkness.
"Are you all right?" His voice, earnest and sweet, melted the ice around Virginia's heart.
"If I asked you a question, Father," she began, "would you answer it honestly?"
Mulcahy nodded. "Of course."
"How many women has Hawkeye been with?" His head jerked back in surprise, and she swore she saw embarrassment color his cheeks. "You promised," she urged.
But Mulcahy faltered. "I—I really couldn't say. That's none of my business." He stumbled backwards, out of the darkness and into the light—just a step, but enough to give her the true answer.
Virginia said nothing more. She swept past the Father, the hem of her dressing gown heavy with snow. Back in her tent, she rifled through her desk door until she located her notebook. Ripping out a clean sheet, she scribbled a few words, folded the paper, and tucked it beneath her pillow.
Hawkeye thought he could do whatever he wished behind her back, treat her with kindness in front of the others, but ignore her when she was at her most vulnerable? Fine.
Two could play at that game.
.::.
The following morning, Virginia whisked into the mess tent with the vengeance of Scarlett O'Hara pumping through her blood. She'd channeled all the spite, anger, and childlike pettiness buried within as she prepared for breakfast. She'd done her hair the way Hawkeye liked—long, soft curls with a pale pink ribbon holding back the top half. Her outfit left more to be desired thanks to army regulations, but she'd taken a page from Klinger's book and slipped on her drop-pearl earrings. She'd dabbed her lily of the valley perfume behind her ears and on her wrists. Now, as she walked, chin high, through the mess tent, she kept her eyes trained on one thing.
Charlie Clark.
With calculated movements, she dipped into the coffee line. The thick white mug shook in her trembling hands. Droplets of hot liquid burnt her wrists as she topped off her cup. Coffee poured and satisfactorily sweet, she turned and faced the mess tent, mug's edge poised at her mouth.
On one side of the tent sat Hawkeye. He hadn't slept well—she could see it in the lines on his forehead and his puffy eyes. Despite that, he laughed alongside Trapper, their amusement centered on a visibly ruffled Frank.
On the other side sat Emily, the nurse Virginia had caught Hawkeye with on her first day. Emily had assisted her on a few surgeries and been nothing but pleasant, but she was everything Virginia wasn't: buxom, blonde, easily impressed, and flirtatious. Virginia was slim, hard to win, and straight laced. It seemed he was more interested in no strings attached than a committed relationship.
Well, she had learned a few things from him about no strings, and she aimed to put that knowledge to good use. After all, Hawkeye always told her a little fun never killed anyone.
As she stepped toward Charlie, she fought her better nature. Now was not the time for fidelity or faithfulness, no matter how much she yearned for her husband. He'd burnt her too many times. With blood pumping in her ears, she reached in her pocket and pulled out the note she'd written the night before. She dropped it to the empty spot on the bench beside him before moving to take her seat beside Ginger two tables away. From her place, she watched him open the paper, watched his eyes scan the words.
He looked up, met her eyes, and smiled.
Virginia sat straight, grinning. Damn if it didn't feel good to break the rules.
A/N: Thoughts on Virginia's actions? Ideas for her plan? Love to hear from you!