A/N: Oh, dear. Apparently I've got people doing backflips and falling down flights of stairs. I never intended for my writing to inspire such feats of acrobatics. Oh, I wish I could hug you all! But I'll settle for saying thanks so much for your wonderful reviews. They're like chocolate, only not nearly as bad for my thighs. And thank you, as always, to my beta reader, blown-transistor. I'm still waiting for you to write your own M*A*S*H story, little lady!
Oh. So this chapter is definitely rated T. Expect much kissing and fooling around and such. Charles and Nell have a lot of lost time to make up for. Enjoy!
Disclaimer: M*A*S*H belongs to much smarter, wealthier minds than mine.
The Wind and the Rain
Chapter Twenty-Six: A Custom Fit in an Off-the-Rack World
When Nellie woke, she thought she had died and gone to heaven. Then, of course, she remembered where she was and realized her mistake. They were called the Pearly Gates, not the Olive Drab Gates.
The V.I.P. tent was dimly lit, illuminated only by the thin strip of gray morning light which streamed in through the curtains. It was still raining outside, but it had slackened off to a slight drizzle. She lay on her back, listening to the sound of the raindrops pattering lightly on the canvas roof. Before long, its soothing cadence had almost succeeded in lulling her back to sleep.
And then Charles stirred in his slumber, and she smiled.
Were it not for the undeniable fact that he was lying beside her now, Nellie would have been hard-pressed not to suspect that the events of the night before had all been a wonderful, delirium-induced dream. Nevertheless, there he was: fast asleep, his long arm wrapped securely around her waist, and his face buried in her hair. She didn't have to pull back the blankets to know that one of his legs was lazily draped over hers. For a man who was usually so reserved, he certainly had no trouble expressing his affection while he was unconscious.
Very gently, so as not to disturb his rest, she covered his hand with her own. She still couldn't quite believe that it had actually happened — that they had both survived all the hardships and heartache and near-death experiences to get to this point. If someone had told her, upon her arrival in Korea last autumn, that she would fall hopelessly in love with one of the surgeons in her unit — and not just any surgeon, but a filthy rich surgeon who had studied medicine at Harvard and whose family owned half of Boston — she would have laughed in their face.
But all of that was immaterial to Nellie. She couldn't have cared less about Charles's money or his position in society. She loved him. She loved his brilliant, razor-sharp mind. She loved his kind, generous heart, cleverly hidden though it was, except to those who really knew him. She loved his wry, subtle sense of humor. She loved the look of rapture on his face when he listened to his music, and the way his eyes sparkled with mischief every time he teased her.
Damn. Danny was right. She had it bad.
Danny. What would he think of all this? He knew how she felt about Charles, but he also knew from her letters that their relationship had been strained, until very recently. How would he react when he learned that his big sister was now romantically involved with the very same man she had dubbed, in her anger and frustration, "a frigid snob" and "a ridiculous fancy-pants"? He would think her the most fickle girl who had ever lived.
Everything was about to change. Given the extent of her injuries, it was likely that she would be sent home, and very soon. As absurd as it was, she found herself dreading the prospect. She knew, of course, that the 4077th couldn't be expected to take care of her. But the people here had become her family. She could hardly bear the idea of leaving them. Of leaving Charles. How would their relationship work, with an entire ocean separating them? After all they had been through together... it just wasn't fair.
Nellie sighed, her gaze drifting down to the white cast on her leg, which almost seemed to glow in the near-darkness. It was so disconcerting, knowing her leg was right there, but being unable to feel it. What would become of her, when she got back to the States? Between the injury compensation she would receive from the Army and the trust fund her father had set up for herself and Danny, she wouldn't be left in the lurch by any means. But where would she go? She couldn't very well look after herself with a broken leg, especially if the paralysis was permanent. She didn't exactly relish the thought of living with her uncle and aunt in Malibu, but she supposed there was really no other alternative.
What if she never regained sensation in her leg? What then? Her nursing career would be over, and nursing was all she had ever known. She couldn't imagine what she would do if she had to give it up. What use would she be to anyone?
And what about when the war was over, or when Charles accumulated enough rotation points to come back to America? No doubt he would return to Boston; of course he would. It was his home, after all. Would he ask her to come with him?
Would he even want her at all, now that she was... damaged goods?
"Enough cogitating," Charles suddenly mumbled, his voice heavy with sleep. "You'll give yourself a headache."
Nellie blinked in surprise. "How did you know I was—"
"Your fingers. They were drawing furious little patterns on the back of my hand."
With an effort, she pushed her disquieting thoughts out of her mind for the time being. "I'm sorry," she said, rubbing his arm. "I woke you up, didn't I?"
Charles propped himself up on one elbow and gazed down into her eyes. "Think nothing of it," he murmured, reaching up and brushing her hair out of her face. "To be honest, I'm not entirely convinced this isn't a dream."
She felt her cheeks grow warm as she steadily returned his gaze. "I know what you mean," she said softly.
Slipping his hand gently underneath her head, he lowered his face toward hers, and their lips met in a slow, lingering kiss. Involuntarily, she slid her arms around his back, pulling him closer, enjoying the warmth of his body against hers. A shiver of pleasure went through her as she felt his other hand trace a path down her side to settle on her hip, his strong fingers kneading her skin through the thin hospital gown. This was no dream. This was real, and the revelation was almost overpowering.
"If it be thus to dream," he whispered huskily, his breath warm in her ear, "still let me sleep."
Twelfth Night. Naturally. She smiled, weaving her own fingers through the slightly curled hair at the nape of his neck. "I thought you said you'd had your fill of Shakespeare."
"Did I say that?" His deep baritone reverberated against her chest, sending another thrill through her. "It must have been the concussion talking."
She let out a laugh. She couldn't help it. Such an excess of happiness simply couldn't be contained. "God, I missed you," she said fondly.
This provoked a very unexpected reaction in Charles. Abruptly, he sat up, causing the bed springs to creak slightly. Alarmed by the sudden change, Nellie watched as he passed a pensive hand across his face. As she reached out and laid her bandaged hand on his shoulder, she could not fail to notice how tense he had become. She didn't like this. Not at all.
"Charles." He didn't reply. He seemed to be deliberately avoiding her gaze. "Charles, what's the matter? Was it something I said?"
Quickly, he laid his hand over hers. "No, of course not, Malone. It's simply that I..." He shook his head to himself, a bitter gesture. "I can't help... remembering what I did to you. The pain I've caused. I know I hurt you, deeply. It was... unworthy of me."
"I told you already that I forgive you," she reminded him gently.
"Yes," he murmured. "I know."
Nellie felt her heart sink. "But you haven't forgiven yourself," she said in realization.
Charles shook his head again. "No," he confessed in a low voice. "And I suspect I never will." He still wouldn't look her in the eye. "It's a matter of honor, Malone. You see, I've... I've set rather high standards for myself. Standards which I broke when I chose to push you away. When I lied to you." He swallowed, his gaze straying to her cast. "And look what it's cost you."
His self-recrimination was all too evident; it seemed to radiate off him in waves. Nellie knew how much his integrity meant to him. It was what drove him to be the very best, in surgery as well as in every other aspect of his life. It was what prevented him from compromising his ethics, and from succumbing to the potentially corrupting influences around him. It was, she supposed, just an inevitable part of being a Winchester.
It was also his downfall. His greatest strength was, ironically, his greatest weakness. Being the best meant that he wasn't allowed to be imperfect.
She made an attempt to push herself up to a sitting position, but couldn't quite manage it. Charles noticed her efforts, and slid an arm behind her shoulders, gently helping her upright. As he did so, she placed her hand on the side of his face, forcing him to look at her.
"Charles," she said quietly, "do you still think that you're to blame for what happened to my leg?"
He didn't answer. But then, he didn't have to. Even without her glasses, it was plain to see that he did.
Nellie heaved a sigh. As much as she admired his sense of honor, it also vexed her. It was painful to see him so miserable, so consumed with guilt. This was not the Charles she knew and loved. She missed his air of effortless confidence, his dry, witty humor, his sardonic smirk. She even missed that maddening smugness of his, which surprised her. She hadn't even realized she loved that part of him, until it was gone. And she was determined to get it back again.
She took a deep breath. "Let's clear this up right now," she told him. "You are not the reason I went with Father Mulcahy to the orphanage. The fact of the matter is, I was under so much stress over worrying about Danny that I needed a distraction. I wanted to go. Regardless of whether you and I had been on good terms or not, the outcome would have been the same."
He closed his eyes, but she would have none of that. "Look at me, Charles." His eyes flew open, surprised by the firmness of her tone. "You saved my life. Again." It was suddenly somewhat difficult to speak around the lump in her throat. "I'd say that makes us even."
A shadow of his old smile briefly touched his lips, giving her hope. "Besides," she added, brushing the backs of her fingernails across his cheek, "I don't like seeing you this way. You're much too sad for my tastes. Whatever happened to the Charles Winchester who used to beat the pants off me at 'Name That Classical Composer', and tease me about liking G.K. Chesterton?"
He gave a chuckle which was more of a breathy exhalation. "I'm afraid his ego suffered a significant blow, when it nearly cost him the love of his life."
Nellie felt a pang at his words. "Any chance he'll recover soon?" she asked softly.
"Perhaps." His arm, which was still around her back, tightened its hold. "If you'll tell me what I can do to atone for my despicable behavior." She sighed in frustration, but he was insistent. "Please, Malone. I will do anything. Just name it."
As she looked into his mournful blue eyes, their pupils large in the dim light of the tent, she suddenly had an idea.
"Well," she said slowly, her tone purposely light and playful, "you do still owe me a game of Go. You said we'd play after we got back from the aid station, but we never did." She shook her head in mock censure. "Very bad form, sir."
Charles smiled again. His other hand reached up and toyed idly with a lock of her hair. "I hadn't forgotten, however it might have seemed." His smile faded, all too soon. "I just thought... given the state of affairs between us..."
"I know," she said gently. Very carefully, so as not to dislodge the intravenous lines in her arm, she clasped her hands behind his neck. "So, what do you say? I promise I'll try to go easy on you."
His eyebrows rose at this. "Oh, is that so?" he asked, shooting her a rather arch look. "How very considerate of you, Malone."
Nellie grinned. This was more like it.
"I've got a much better idea," he continued, leaning into her, his mouth close to her ear. "Imagine, if you will, the warm glow of candlelight. Some soft music playing in the background; say, Dvořák's Romantic Pieces for Violin and Piano." His voice had deepened to a low, velvety rumble. "And a bottle of '39 Château Latour." Nellie drew in a sharp breath as she felt his lips graze her earlobe for a split-second. "All... carefully... selected... in order to ease the pain of your bitter defeat."
Nellie let her mouth fall open in feigned shock. "Such brazen audacity. I love it." He chuckled warmly, and her heart soared at the sound. "Charles, am I coming down with brain fever, or did you just ask me out on a date?"
He pulled back slightly, looking at her with mild surprise. "I... I suppose I did," he said at last.
She smiled. "Then in that case, you should ask me properly."
Returning her smile, he took her hand in his. "Malone," he said very solemnly, "may I have the exquisite pleasure of your company this evening?"
Surely it wasn't wise to love anyone this much. It couldn't be healthy. "I'd be delighted," she replied, a little breathlessly.
Still smiling, Charles closed the short distance between them and kissed her lightly. It was meant to be a brief peck, but when he started to pull away, Nellie placed her hands firmly on either side of his face and drew his mouth back to hers.
He seemed as surprised by her sudden boldness as she was herself, but he clearly didn't seem to mind. His arms tightened around her, pulling her close, until her body was flush against his. It wasn't long until all rational thought fled from her mind, and all she could focus on was the feel of his impossibly warm, soft lips moving over hers.
"Traditionally," he murmured, his thumb tracing lazy circles on the small of her back, "the goodnight kiss is reserved for the end of the date, not before."
"Mmm," she mumbled dreamily against his lips. "You're probably right. Should we stop?"
"Are you mad, woman?"
Nellie let out a laugh at this, which was quickly silenced as once again he covered her mouth with his. With a sigh, she melted against him, amazed at how natural it felt to be in his arms. Given her lack of experience, she had fully expected to feel some nervousness, perhaps even a touch of fear at the idea of being alone with a man in such an intimate setting. But the exact opposite was proving true. This wasn't just any man. This was Charles. This was the man who had told her, with an air of vulnerability that was almost heart-breaking, that she was everything he had hoped for. How could she possibly be nervous, if she had been made for him?
She placed her hands on his chest, feeling his heart beating rapidly under her palm. For some reason, this had an unanticipated effect on her. A soft moan escaped her before she could stop it, and Charles responded by deepening the kiss further, gently coaxing her mouth open with his. His every movement was deliberately languid, and maddeningly thorough.
Without breaking the kiss, he eased her slowly back against the pillows, causing her breath to catch in her throat and her fingernails to dig unthinkingly into his shoulders. "Charles," she whispered, feeling for the first time a twinge of apprehension.
"Shhh," he soothed. "It's all right, Malone. Rest assured, I would never do anything to make you uncomfortable." He pressed a tender kiss to the corner of her mouth. "Or to cause you to lose your trust in me."
Unexpectedly, Nellie found herself blinking back tears. "You are real, aren't you?" she asked, her voice wavering slightly.
He chuckled at this. "Does this feel real enough to you?" he asked teasingly, focusing his attentions on the side of her neck.
She had to bite back another moan. "Oh, my, yes," she replied breathlessly. "And may I say, you're quite good at that."
Charles pulled back slightly and arched a haughty eyebrow at her. "Of course you may," he said, throwing her an infuriatingly arrogant smirk, the effect of which was significantly tempered by the love shining in his eyes.
Shaking her head in good-natured exasperation, Nellie snaked her arm behind his neck and pulled his lips back to hers. For a long time, she simply surrendered herself to his warmth, his taste, his gentle touch, and his whispered words of adoration.
They were so completely lost in each other, in fact, that neither of them noticed when the door of the V.I.P. tent suddenly swung open, and a tall, lanky figure appeared in the doorway, silhouetted against the bright light outside.
"Knock, knock," came Danny's hushed voice. "I hope you're up, Nell. I wanted to see if you were hungry, because I can — Oh, dear God! Sorry, sorry, sorry, I'll come back later!"
Nellie raised her head from the pillows just in time to see her little brother beating a frantic retreat out of the tent, banging the door noisily behind him.
She looked at Charles, who was blinking at her in undisguised shock.
"Well, I was wondering how we were going to tell him," she said.
And then, a second later, they both dissolved into helpless, uncontrollable laughter.
Francis Mulcahy strolled cheerfully through the compound on his way back from the showers, his hands in the pockets of his bathrobe and his towel draped over his shoulder. As he walked, he whistled "Oh, What a Beautiful Mornin'", earning a few strange looks from the members of his flock. But he couldn't help it. For once, it was a beautiful morning.
It had begun like any other day in Korea during the wet season: rainy, humid, and perfectly miserable. And then, to Mulcahy's delight, the clouds had burned away, leaving in their place a breathtakingly blue sky. It was such a welcome change that not even the lingering headache from his injury was enough to diminish his joy.
Still whistling to himself, he passed Sergeant Rizzo, who appeared to be on his way to the motor pool. "Well, good morning, Rizzo," he said, raising his hand in greeting.
The sergeant fixed Mulcahy with a look that he'd once heard Klinger describe as "the skunk-eye". "Yeah?" he said sullenly. "What's so good about it?"
Mulcahy would have thought it obvious. "Why, everything," he replied brightly. "The sky is blue, the sun is shining. As the poet Browning said, 'The lark's on the wing, the snail's on the thorn, God is in His heaven, and all's right with the world.'" He gave a small chuckle. "Or at least, all's right with the 4077th, anyway."
Rizzo humphed. "I don't know nothin' 'bout no larks and snails," he grumbled. "But what I do know is, I got an ambulance with a hole in its oil pan the size of the Atchafalaya Swamp. And I'll give you three guesses as to who's got to fix it."
"Oh, dear," said Mulcahy, his tone a little less jovial. "It must have happened on the way back from the orphanage. I'm afraid we couldn't afford to slow down to avoid the rocks and pot-holes."
The Cajun rolled his eyes. "You ain't kiddin', Father. From the looks of it, I'd say you folks was lucky to have made it back to camp at all. Guess somebody up there must like you."
Mulcahy stared silently at the sergeant, realizing the implications of his words. A leak in the oil pan, especially a large one, was by no means an easy fix. If the ambulance had decided to break down before they had arrived at the hospital, they would have been stranded. And Nellie would have been lost. The thought was a sobering one.
He swallowed. "Yes," he said at last, "I think you may be right."
It was in a considerably more subdued frame of mind that he resumed his walk back to his tent. At least, he mused, young Danny Malone would be in a better mood than Rizzo. The poor, exhausted private had been in need of a place to sleep, and knowing that a decent night's rest would have been next to impossible in the Swamp, with the surgeons going in and out at all hours to check on patients, Mulcahy had offered to let Danny stay in his tent. The lad was out like a light as soon as his head hit the pillow on his folding cot. But he had woken quite refreshed, and Mulcahy had left him in high spirits.
With a yawn, the chaplain pulled open the door of his tent and stepped inside. He was surprised, and somewhat confused, to find Danny still there. He was sitting on the edge of his cot and staring off into space, his expression not unlike that of a man who had been struck by a bolt of lightning and somehow survived without a single scorch mark to show for it.
Mulcahy frowned. "Danny?" he asked in concern. "Is everything all right?"
At first the boy didn't seem to hear him. Then he blinked up at him, looking dazed. "Father," he said in an odd voice, "do you have any siblings?"
The priest was thrown by the question. As far as non sequiturs went, this one definitely did not follow. "Well," he said slowly, "yes, actually. I come from a rather large family. Three brothers and a younger sister."
"Are you close to them?"
At this he felt his face grow warm. "Not exactly. My brothers and I never really got along. I'm afraid they take after our parents a bit too much." He cleared his throat, suddenly uncomfortable. "But my sister Catherine and I are extremely close. Or rather, I should say, Maria Angelica. She's a nun at St. Cecilia's in Philadelphia. I'm very proud of her."
As Danny listened, his shoulders seemed to slump in disappointment. "Oh," he said in a monotone, staring down at his hands. "She sounds nice."
Mulcahy turned and hung up his towel to dry. Then, retrieving his chair from behind his desk, he sat down across from Danny. "What's troubling you, my son?" he asked quietly.
The young private's cheeks reddened to match his hair. When he spoke, it was in a low, embarrassed voice. "I just walked in on Nellie and Major Winchester."
"Oh?" Abruptly, he realized what Danny meant. "Oh," he said, his eyebrows climbing toward his hairline. "Oh, dear. Were they, ahh... canoodling?"
Danny let out a bark of laughter, seemingly against his will. "Were they ever," he replied wryly.
Mulcahy smiled sympathetically. Now he understood why the boy had asked about his own siblings. Unfortunately, he had asked the wrong person; Mulcahy had never had to adjust to the idea of his sister dating anyone, because she had always wanted to serve God. But of course, Danny had no way of knowing that.
"You know," the young man continued, "when Nell started going out with Klinger, I didn't think anything would come of it. And I wasn't the least bit surprised when it didn't. I mean, Klinger's a great guy, and he's always been good to my sister, but I knew they were never going to work out." He shook his head, still looking down at his hands. "This is different, though. This is real. I can actually see Nellie and Winchester... getting married. Having kids." He sighed. "I thought I was ready for all that, but I guess I'm not."
"Well, that's perfectly understandable," Mulcahy said gently. "Nellie is your sister, after all. It's normal to experience a certain amount of protectiveness."
Danny snorted. "Selfishness, is more like it," he muttered. "No, it's true, Father," he added, noting the priest's look of protest. "See, the thing is, for as long as I can remember, Nellie's always been there for me. Not even my transfer to Korea was enough to separate us." He swallowed. "I honestly didn't think anything ever would. Until now."
"Danny." Mulcahy laid a hand on the boy's shoulder. "Nothing could ever separate you and Nellie. She adores you. Why, anyone can see that." He smiled, but his tone was serious. "She may have found someone special to share her life with, but that doesn't mean she'll love you any less. You do know that, don't you?"
The redhead nodded, almost imperceptibly. "Yeah. I know." He passed his hand over his face. "What do you think of him, Father?" he asked.
"Of Charles?" Mulcahy sat back in his chair in deliberation. "Well, let's see. What is there to say about Charles? He's a complicated man; some would say a difficult man." He smiled again. "And others would say that was putting it mildly."
He grew quiet, remembering the look on Winchester's face when he had first seen Nellie, trapped under that massive beam. The tender manner in which he had examined her injury. The tears of desperation in his eyes as he had pleaded with her to stay with him, to hold on.
"But," he added softly, "he's also a very good man. And I believe he loves your sister with everything that is in him."
Danny's mouth lifted slightly on one side, reminding the chaplain of Nellie's own silly smile. "I think so, too," he replied. He heaved a histrionic sigh. "I'm just being ridiculous. Every inch the jealous little brother." Mulcahy chuckled. "But I do want her to be happy."
"That's definitely a good start," Mulcahy told him kindly. "Now," he said, standing up, "what do you say to trying our luck over at the mess tent? There's a small chance that the orphans haven't eaten everything in sight just yet."
Suddenly there was a knock at the door, startling him. He moved to answer it, and received a pleasant shock when he saw who was on the other side. It was none other than the other half of the indomitable Malone duo herself, being pushed in a wheelchair by Winchester. She was wrapped in the major's striped dressing-gown, and a smile was on her freckled face.
"Hello, Father," she said amiably.
"Nellie," he exclaimed, his hands moving instinctively to tighten the sash around his own robe. "My heavens, what a wonderful surprise. It's so good to see you up and about. And so soon! Oh, what a relief!" He was aware that he was babbling, but there was no stopping him. "And how are you, Charles? I trust you're well rested? Well, of course you are. You're already looking much better, if I may say so."
"You may, Father," Winchester replied in his haughty, upper-crust drawl, though not without a patient smile. "Thank you. Might we come inside for a moment?"
"Of course, of course! Where are my manners today? Please, come in." He hastily stepped aside, holding the door open. As the major wheeled Nellie into the tent, she beamed up at Mulcahy in genuine affection. She looked tired and pale, but there was a happy glow to her that warmed the priest's heart to see.
Danny had risen to greet them, as well, his cheeks slightly pink. "Good morning, Nell. Major." He gave an awkward cough. "I'm sorry about... earlier. Next time I'll actually wait for an answer before barging in like that."
Nellie laughed in amusement at her brother's flustered behavior. "At ease, Private," she told him with mock seriousness. "You didn't interrupt anything unseemly. You know what a prude I am." She cast a sheepish look in Mulcahy's direction. "Sorry, Father. I'm trying to be tactful as possible."
"That's quite all right, Nellie," he answered with a chuckle.
Winchester stepped forward, his posture very stiff and formal. "I owe you an apology, Daniel," he said in a low voice. "I should have informed you of my intentions toward your sister long before now. I hope you can forgive my critical oversight."
Danny held up a hand. "No apologies necessary, sir," he said firmly. "And with all due respect, it hardly needed to be said. I think your intentions were obvious to practically everyone in Korea. Everyone except Nellie, of course."
"Hey, shut up," she said, trying in vain to look offended.
"Anyway," he went on, blithely ignoring his sister, "I'm happy for you both. Really." He smiled. "Just as long as you keep taking good care of her, Major."
For a moment, Winchester seemed to be struggling to maintain his composure. He cleared his throat. "I fully intend to do so," he said at last. "And you are certainly welcome to call me Charles."
As Nellie quickly dashed a tear from her cheek, in a rather conspicuous attempt to be inconspicuous, Mulcahy couldn't quite suppress a smile of his own. In a place full of so much pain and suffering, it did his soul good to see some happiness for a change.
Danny slipped his hand into his sister's. "Listen, no offense to the only doctor in the room, but should you really be here?" he asked in concern. "You just had a serious operation, Nell. Are you sure you're well enough to be out of bed?"
"I'm fine," she assured him. "I don't feel any pain. In fact, I don't have any feeling in my leg at all at the moment."
At this Mulcahy felt a pang of dismay. "Oh, Nellie," he said sadly. "I didn't know that."
She looked up at him, and her expression become one of fondness. She cast a glance at Winchester, who nodded and wheeled her forward. Releasing Danny's hand, she beckoned Mulcahy closer. Though slightly bewildered, he did as he was bidden and knelt in front of her chair.
"Father," she said very solemnly, "don't be alarmed, but I'm about to hug you."
And then she did, with a strength he had hardly expected her to possess. "Thank you," she told him, her voice thick. "Thank you for staying with me. I'll never forget it. And before you try to argue, just remember that I never would have made it, if it hadn't been for you. You're one in a million, Francis John Patrick Mulcahy."
The chaplain felt his vision begin to blur. "I don't know what to say," he murmured hoarsely, his throat burning. "I'm just... glad I could be of use."
Nellie gave him one last squeeze before releasing him. As he stood, adjusting his skewed spectacles, he received another surprise when Winchester reached out and grasped his hand in both of his.
"Father, you are undoubtedly the master of understatement," he said, his tone unexpectedly warm, "but you have my most sincere and heartfelt thanks, as well."
As the major shook his hand, and Danny patted him gratefully on the shoulder, Mulcahy was nearly overcome with emotion. "My goodness," he managed to say around the lump in his throat. "Now I know what King David meant when he said, 'My cup runneth over.'"
When Margaret was younger, she would have killed to have had red hair. She distinctly remembered being ten years old, and seeing a colorized photograph of Clara Bow. With her big, dreamy eyes, her flawless skin, and her pouty lips, all topped by that forest of wild, fiery curls, she had been easily the most beautiful woman Margaret had ever seen in her short life. It was years before she had finally been able to appreciate being a blonde.
Malone's mane, however, was another thing altogether. It seemed to have a life of its own.
As the head nurse ran a brush through the younger woman's newly-washed hair, she apologized for the millionth time as the teeth got caught in a particularly nasty tangle. In the months since she had first had it all chopped off, it had grown quite a bit, and as a result had become completely unmanageable. Fortunately, it seemed Malone was used to it. She hadn't flinched even once.
Margaret would never know how word had spread so quickly throughout the camp that Charles and Malone had finally worked out all their issues and were even planning to go on their first official date, but for once, she was grateful for the power of gossip. After enlisting the aid of Lieutenant Kellye, she had commandeered Malone's wheelchair and taken her straight to the nurses' tent to help her get ready. After all, with a sprained wrist and a broken leg, there wasn't much the poor girl could do by herself. And this was an historic event.
While Margaret continued to comb the snarls out of Malone's damp hair, Kellye meticulously applied her makeup. She had chosen a deep, vibrant red for her lips, making them stand out against her pale complexion. As the Hawaiian nurse stepped back to admire her handiwork, Malone eyed her with an uncertain look.
"Are you sure it's not too much?" she asked nervously.
"Hush," Kellye told her firmly. "I know what I'm doing. Now quit fidgeting and let me finish. And don't even think about chewing your lip."
Malone blinked at her in surprise, but did as she was told. "I don't know how you do that," she muttered under her breath.
They worked in silence for a moment. "Malone," Margaret said at length, "where's that dress you wore to the Valentine's Day party?"
"Oh, that belongs to Nagel," Kellye answered for her. "But I'm sure she won't mind letting Nellie borrow it again."
As they helped Malone into the dark blue frock, taking pains to be gentle with her, she frowned in confusion. "Shouldn't I wear something else? Charles has already seen me in this dress."
"Yeah," Kellye replied with an amused smirk, "and he couldn't take his eyes off of you all night."
"Really?" Malone asked, sounding genuinely taken aback.
"Don't tell me you didn't notice," Margaret said incredulously.
Slowly, she shook her head. "No, I guess not." She paused, before adding reflectively, "We played Go that night, too. I wondered why he kept making such lousy moves." Her eyes slipped shut in realization, and she hit her forehead with the heel of her palm. "God, I really am oblivious, aren't I?"
Kellye patted her on the back. "Don't worry," she said with a smile, "it's endearing."
"More like embarrassing." She gave a rueful sigh. "I wonder how many men I've managed to offend because I was too dense to notice their interest in me."
Margaret suppressed a chuckle. "You were just waiting for the right one to come along, that's all. And you picked a good one, Malone." She hesitated, wondering if she should continue. Finally she decided there was no harm in it. "You know, I was a little taken with Charles myself when he first came here. There, I said it."
Malone twisted around in her wheelchair to regard her with wide eyes. "Seriously?" she blurted, before remembering herself. "I mean, is that right, Major?"
The head nurse laughed. "Sure. Of course, I was married at the time. But still, it's not every day that a tall, rich, distinguished, rich doctor gets transferred to your camp. Did I mention he was rich?"
It was Malone's turn to laugh. "Oh, I see," she said with a knowing smirk.
"Don't get me wrong," Margaret went on. "Money isn't everything. Believe me, I know." She rolled her eyes, remembering a certain wealthy tightwad by the name of Frank Burns. She shook her head, as if to rid herself of the memory. "Charles may be aggravating sometimes, but he's a true gentleman. Which is more than I can say for a lot of men I've known."
"And he has pretty eyes," said Kellye suddenly. They both stared at her. "Well, he does," she added defensively. They only continued to stare, which caused her to throw up her hands in exasperation. "Okay, so I used to have a little crush on him, too," she admitted. "He can be really charming when he wants to be. And he's a very good dancer."
Malone smiled wanly. "Not me. I'm about as graceful as a giraffe on roller-skates. And now..." She gave a sigh which caught in her throat. "I may never be able to dance with Charles."
Margaret felt her heart ache with pity. "Oh, Malone." She put a hand on the nurse's shoulder. "You don't know that your leg won't recover."
"No. But I don't know that it will, either." She sniffed, wiping at her eyes. "I'm sorry. I'm smudging my makeup already."
There was a knock at the door, and Malone quickly attempted to compose herself. "Who is it?" she asked.
"Special delivery for Nellie Malone," came a familiar nasal baritone.
At this the redhead broke into a smile. "Come in, Max," she answered.
Klinger stepped inside the tent, carrying a long, rectangular box under one arm. As his gaze lighted on Malone, he placed a hand on his chest and pretended to swoon. "Be still my heart," he said with a theatrical sigh. "Now those are what are referred to in showbiz as lips that won't quit."
Malone tried to swat him, but he dodged her adroitly. "What are you doing here, Klinger?" Margaret demanded, her hands on her hips.
"Take it easy, Major," he said in what he no doubt assumed was a soothing tone. "I come bearing gifts." He placed the box in Malone's lap. "Go on, open it up," he told her.
Regarding the corporal somewhat dubiously, Malone slowly removed the lid from the box. And then, drawing in a sharp breath, she took out a pair of long white opera gloves. "Oh, Max," she breathed. "They're beautiful. Thank you."
"Don't mention it," he replied. "They're probably a little big, but they'll look a lot better on you than they ever did on me." She laughed at this. "More to the point," he added, "they'll cover your bruised wrist nicely."
Margaret had to smile. "That's a very sweet gesture, Klinger."
He gave a nonchalant shrug, though he couldn't hold back a grin. "So," he said, eagerly rubbing his hands together, "can I help with anything? Like your hair?"
Kellye chuckled. "You're still just one of the girls, aren't you, Klinger?" she asked teasingly.
The clerk drew back in feigned indignation. "Hey, lay off me, will you? I just want to make sure Nellie looks her best for her date with Major Windbag."
"Max," said Malone with a warning glare, "be nice."
"Relax, I'm just pulling your..." His gaze drifted down to her cast, and he cleared his throat. "I'm just kidding," he amended weakly.
Malone folded her arms huffily over her chest, and Klinger gave her a placating pat on the hand. "I'm sorry, Nell," he said kindly. "I was only playing around. I really am happy for you. I mean it."
Slowly, her crooked smile returned to her face. "Thanks, Max," she said gratefully.
He returned her smile. "Any time, kid."
And then, with a smooth motion, he plucked the hair brush neatly from Margaret's grasp before she had a chance to react. "Step aside, Major, I can take it from here," he said with an air of infuriating self-assurance.
The head nurse watched, too surprised to protest, as Klinger stepped behind Malone's chair and began to work the brush through her thick red hair like a professional. As he swept it into a sleek, graceful updo, pinning it securely with her jade-and-silver combs, Margaret could only stare in amazement.
"You know, Klinger," she told him, genuinely impressed, "you just might have a very lucrative business for yourself when you get back to Toledo."
He gave a low chuckle. "It's a nice suggestion, Major, but the guys at the bowling alley would never let me hear the end of it." He shook his head, heaving a sad sigh. "I guess I'll just have to live with being a frustrated artist. Like that Victor Van Gogh guy."
The three nurses exchanged a glance with one another, before they all burst out laughing.
Klinger blinked in confusion. "What?" he demanded. "What'd I say?"
Record player? Check.
Candles? Check.
Wine? Check.
A selection of cheeses and dried fruits? Check.
Pâté de foie gras?
Wait a minute. Where was it? Oh, of course. He hadn't brought it, because Malone had said once that she didn't eat internal organs. The silly girl.
Charles looked around the V.I.P. tent, racking his brains to think of anything he might have forgotten. There were glasses, plates, silverware, matches for the candles. He had even managed to persuade Rosie to part with one of her table cloths, for a price. Everything seemed just about perfect.
And then he realized he'd left his Go board back at the Swamp.
Shaking his head, he stepped out into the compound, breathing in the warm evening air and trying to remain calm and collected. He couldn't recall the last time he had been this nervous. Even as a teenager, he had never felt such a rush of delirious anticipation over a date. But then again, he had never been on a date with a woman who stimulated him in every way, who challenged his intellect even as she drove his senses wild. In short, a woman like Malone.
What was incredible was the fact that she seemed completely unaware of the effect she had on him. There was not a trace of dissemblance in her. She simply had no idea. For some reason, that made her even more irresistible to him.
He hoped he would be able to control himself tonight.
The lights were all on in the Swamp when he arrived. He pulled the door open to find Pierce, Hunnicutt, Klinger, and Danny sitting around a rickety deal table, playing a game of poker. Nodding briefly to them, he strode without preamble to his desk and picked up his Go board.
He turned and found Klinger eyeing him with interest. "You're not going on your date dressed like that, are you?" he asked, taking in his informal attire with a raised eyebrow.
Charles felt his fists clench in surprised indignation. "Just how, pray tell, do you know about—"
"Don't blame us, Chuck," Pierce interrupted in a bored tone. "News travels fast around here."
At this Charles rolled his eyes. "Of course it does," he muttered, relaxing slightly. "I might have known. Don't people have anything better to do than exchange gossip?"
"Sure," replied Hunnicutt, not looking up from the game. "We're doing it now. Come on, Danny, let's see your cards."
The young private spread out his hand on the table. "Queen-high flush," he said with a yawn.
Pierce groaned, throwing down his own cards. "I don't think I like this kid anymore."
Coughing into his hand to hide his amusement, Charles tucked the Go board under his arm. "Gentlemen," he drawled, "I leave you to your massacre."
"Hey, I'm not kidding, sir," Klinger told him as he moved toward the door. "You really ought to change. I just came from the nurses' tent. Major Houlihan and Nurse Kellye have got Nellie dressed to the nines."
He stopped short. "Really?"
"Major," the clerk said with a toothy grin, "she's gonna knock your socks off."
Charles glanced at his wristwatch, wavering in indecision. Then, with a distracted sigh, he set down the Go board and reached for his gray suit. He'd had it cleaned and pressed on his last trip to Seoul, but it had still seen better days. The creases in the trousers were all but nonexistent. At least, he reflected, it would be relatively dark.
He couldn't seem to find his shoes anywhere. As he hastily pulled his tie into a half-Windsor, he rifled through his possessions, trying to remember where and when he had seen them last.
"If you're looking for your wingtips," said Pierce, breaking into his thoughts, "they're under my cot."
He rounded on him sharply, his eye twitching. "What?"
Reaching under his sagging bunk, the chief surgeon retrieved his shoes and held them out to him, newly polished to a high shine.
"They were looking a little shabby," he explained with a smile.
Charles was speechless. Slowly, he reached out and took the shoes. "Thank you, Pierce," he said quietly, when he could finally speak.
He sat down to pull on his shoes, and Hunnicutt leaned over and punched him hard on the arm. "Go get her, you big lug," he said with a cheesy grin. "Whoops," he added with a glance in Danny's direction. "Sorry, kid."
The boy chuckled. "That's okay," he replied. "I think I'm getting used to it. Sort of. Or I will, eventually."
As Charles stood up, picking up his Go board once again, Danny gave him a crooked smile. "Tell Nellie to go easy on you... Charles."
Unable to hold back a smile of his own, he rested his hand briefly on the boy's shoulder, before turning and leaving the Swamp.
After safely stowing the Go board in the V.I.P. tent, he made his way across the compound yet again. He paused outside the nurses' tent, trying to gain control of his racing pulse. Taking a deep breath, he raised his hand and knocked.
"Come in, Major," said Lieutenant Kellye in a lilting voice.
With more than a little trepidation, Charles slowly pulled the door open and stepped inside. Kellye and Margaret were standing side by side, grinning broadly. Just as he was preparing to ask what the hell was the matter with them, they both moved aside, and all of the air promptly rushed out of his lungs.
Malone was sitting in her wheelchair, but his eye was decidedly not drawn to her cast. She was wearing the strapless, midnight blue dress she had worn to the Valentine's Day party, and her arms were encased in a pair of long white gloves. Her hair was in an elegant chignon, and around her neck hung the jade moon rabbit pendant which matched her eyes so perfectly.
"I ne'er saw true beauty till this night," he whispered reverently.
Margaret and Kellye exchanged a glance and sighed in unison.
Belatedly remembering that they were not alone, Charles quickly composed himself and came forward, taking Malone's hand in his. "Good evening, my dear," he said, raising her gloved fingers briefly to his lips. "Are you ready?"
She smiled up at him in frank adoration, causing his heart to skip a beat. "Absolutely," she replied.
He moved behind her chair, pointedly ignoring the irritatingly amused looks on Margaret and Kellye's faces. He cleared his throat when they failed to move out of the way. "If you will excuse us, ladies," he said dryly.
They hastily stepped back, allowing Charles to wheel Malone out of the tent. He bade the nurses a firm good night, not lingering to listen to their giggles. He did permit himself a smile, though, as he heard Malone give a low chuckle of her own.
When they finally arrived at the V.I.P. tent, he felt like he could breathe at last. As he lit the candles and placed the wine glasses on the table, he found himself stealing glances at Malone, enjoying her facial expressions as she watched him.
He turned on the record player and placed the phonograph needle on the spinning disc. As the first notes of Dvořák's Romantic Pieces filled the little tent, Malone sighed dreamily, her eyes drifting shut in bliss. "You are a wicked man, Charles," she said with a smile.
He chuckled, feeling himself begin to relax. "You don't seem in the least perturbed by it," he remarked, shooting her a smirk which she pretended not to notice. "Would you like to sit on the bed, or would you prefer to remain in your chair?"
"The bed, please. I'm dying for a chance to stretch."
Charles leaned down and grasped her by her small waist, lifting her carefully out of her wheelchair. Her arms went around his neck, sending a current of pleasure through him. As he deposited her gently on the bed, he caught the scent of her hair.
"What is that?" he asked, closing his eyes and inhaling deeply. "Your shampoo, I mean."
"Cherry blossom and almond." Her arms were still around his neck.
"Almond," he repeated in a whisper, his nose buried in her hair. "I would never have guessed. It's intoxicating."
"Do you really like it?" Malone craned her neck up to look at him, causing him to whack his chin on the crown of her head. "Sorry," she said with a wince.
"My fault entirely," he replied, unable to restrain a chuckle.
He arranged her pillows into a divan of sorts behind her back, and she leaned against them with a sigh of relief. "Oh, thank you," she breathed.
Charles kissed her forehead lightly. "You're quite welcome," he murmured.
With an effort, he forced himself to step back. He slid the little table closer to the bed, until it was easily within Malone's reach. Finally, he sat down across from her, taking up the bottle of Château Latour. "Technically," he said, "this particular vintage won't reach its true potential for, say, another twenty years or so." He smiled. "However, this is a rather special occasion."
As he prepared to open it, Malone leaned forward and stopped him with a hand on his arm. "Maybe we should wait, then," she suggested softly. "Imagine how good it will be twenty years from now, when it's really had a chance to mature."
Charles felt a sudden tightness in his chest. "Do you think you can tolerate me until then?" he asked, his voice low and hopeful.
Malone smiled. "Easily."
He was so unexpectedly moved that he had to turn away to master his emotions. As he busied himself with setting the wine bottle safely aside, she spoke again. "Did you happen to bring anything else to drink?"
He cleared his throat. "Just some sparkling mineral water, I'm afraid."
"That would be lovely."
In the time it took for him to open the bottle and pour it into the glasses, he was finally able to regain his composure. "To what shall we drink?" he asked her.
At this Malone gave a slight, bashful smile. "There is an old toast that I'm rather fond of."
Unwillingly, Charles was reminded of the crass poem Margaret had recited once, not long after he had first arrived in Korea — back when he had foolishly thought she might prove to be a kindred spirit in this den of wolves. Look out, teeth, look out, gums, look out, liver, here she comes. That had certainly answered that question.
Forcibly, he pushed the memory from his mind. "Tell me," he urged Malone, his tone gently encouraging.
Clearing her throat, she raised her glass in her gloved hand, little finger raised primly. "Drink to me, only with thine eyes, and I will pledge with mine," she said, gazing at him steadily. "Or leave a kiss but in the cup, and I'll not look for wine."
"Ben Jonson," he murmured, recognizing the words instantly.
Malone nodded, still smiling. Charles stared at her for a long moment, unable to say a word. Though it seemed impossible, he found himself falling even more in love with her. However did I exist without you? he thought, his eyes beginning to sting.
She took a sip and set her glass aside. "All right, come on," she said, gesturing to the Go board. "Let's play already. Hajime-masho!"
They began a game, alternating between placing their pieces on the board and sampling the various fruits and cheeses Charles had brought. Before long, Malone was scolding him lightly for holding back. But in truth, he simply couldn't focus. He couldn't believe that he was so blessed to have this woman in his life. It no longer mattered one iota to him what his parents would think. He was never giving her up.
"What is this called?" she asked him, nibbling delicately at a piece of cheese. She had taken off her gloves, not wanting to dirty them.
He glanced up. "Pouligny-saint-pierre."
She shook her head. "My, I've led a sheltered life," she remarked. "How have I lived twenty-eight years and never eaten this? It's amazing."
He chuckled in amusement. "Once I bring you back with me to Boston, I shall give you a proper culinary education," he told her.
Slowly, she set the cheese down on her plate, wiping her hands with a cloth napkin. "Then you still want me to come?" she asked, her voice carefully even.
Charles could hardly believe what he was hearing. "Of course I do," he replied softly.
"And... what about Danny?"
"He'll come with us, if that is what he wishes," he answered, without hesitation. "He's a bright lad. And with my connections, I've no doubt we can find him employment somewhere. Who knows? We might even be able to get him into Harvard."
Malone smiled faintly. "You seem to have given this a lot of thought," she said, sounding a touch overwhelmed.
"Do you not want to come to Boston?" he asked, trying not to let his disappointment show.
"Yes, of course," she assured him quickly. She reached out across the table for his hand, and he gave it to her, relieved. "I don't care where we are, as long as we're together." She swallowed. "I just... I wanted to make sure that... that you hadn't changed your mind."
Charles could feel her fingers trembling slightly in his, and it dismayed him. Didn't she think he was in earnest?
"Malone," he said very seriously. "There's something you should know." Still holding her hand securely in his, he looked directly in her eyes. "I realize that it's a bit premature for me to be saying this, considering this is only our first date, but... I want you with me, always. On that one point I am absolutely certain." He squeezed her fingers gently, giving her physical reassurance along with his words. "There are no plans for my future which don't include you."
Her eyes filled with tears, and he moved to embrace her. "No, please, don't," she said quickly, waving him away with an embarrassed laugh. "I'll cry for sure, and I've done more than enough crying over the past few days." Charles smiled in understanding, and she cleared her throat. "It's your move."
Obediently, he set down one of his pieces. Dimly, he was aware that the record had played to its end, but he was more interested in Malone. As she leaned over the board, contemplating her next move, he found himself incapable of taking his eyes off her. She looked so beautiful, with the soft light from the candles dancing over her bare shoulders and reflecting off her striking red hair.
"By God, woman," he murmured, unable to help himself. "You steal my very breath away."
Her cheeks colored slightly at his ardent tone. "And you, sir," she told him, "are far more handsome than you have any right to be."
"Ah," he said with a droll smile, "how time flies. It seems like only yesterday you were prodding me in the chest with that little index finger of yours and drunkenly declaring that I was a 'big, fat jerk'."
A laugh escaped her lips. "Yes, well," she mumbled sheepishly, "I'd sort of hoped you had forgotten about that."
"Not a chance," he said with a wicked smirk. She laughed again, rolling her eyes. He looked at her carefully. "In all seriousness, do you really... find me attractive?" At her surprised look, he went on hastily. "I merely ask, because... Well, the fact is, I am considerably older than you."
Malone's eyes widened in shock. "You are? How much older?"
Charles raised an eyebrow at her. "Malone, are you being deliberately obtuse?"
"That depends," she replied. "What does 'obtuse' mean?" He sighed, and she gave a chuckle. "I'm kidding, Charles. You're not that much older than me. Ten years is hardly a generational gap." She shrugged. "Besides, Jane Eyre was a lot younger than Rochester, and things turned out just fine for them."
"Yes, indeed," he said dryly. "After she ran away and almost married her cousin, and his demented wife blinded him and burned his manor to the ground."
"Right," said Malone with a nod. "After that."
Charles was not amused. "Your comparison leaves something to be desired," he muttered.
She smiled. "All joking aside, I do find you attractive. Very much so." He snorted, causing her eyebrows to shoot up. "You seem unconvinced."
"Perhaps I am, a little."
She beckoned him to sit next to her. As he sank down beside her on the bed, she tucked her arm through his. "Charles, you have many wonderful qualities, but modesty is not one of them," she said, her tone gently teasing. She gave his arm a squeeze. "What's troubling you?"
He gazed down at her delicate features, her perfectly painted red lips. "Look at you, Malone," he said, brushing his hand over her cheek. "You're young and vibrant and frustratingly beautiful. And I'm..."
You're what? his mind whispered at him. You're out of shape and leaning toward middle-aged, with a receding hairline and a bad back. What could she possibly see in you?
He sighed. "Well, I'm all but three of those things," he said with a regretful smile. "As extremely gratifying as your attentions are, I suppose I can't help wishing I were a bit better suited to you physically."
To her credit, Malone appeared completely taken aback by his confession. "Oh, Charles, I..." She trailed off, giving his arm another tight squeeze. "Last night, you told me that I must have been made for you. I feel the same way. I can hardly believe I was lucky enough to find someone who is my match in every respect. It's like... like you're the other half of me." She shook her head, embarrassed. "I know that sounds trite—"
"Not at all," he told her, pushing his words past the sudden lump in his throat. "You've managed to sum up my feelings perfectly."
She smiled again. "And you say you're not well-suited to me? Of all the damned silly ideas." He returned her smile. "But I don't want to mislead you," she went on. "It's not quite as pure as all that. You should know that I also find you utterly irresistible."
Charles stared at her in surprise. "You do?"
"Are you kidding?" she blurted, with her usual artless candor. "How could I not? Those patrician features, that wonderful, rich voice. And that wry smile." She blushed, clearly unaccustomed to this sort of talk, but she was determined to finish. "To say nothing of these broad shoulders and those ridiculously blue eyes. A girl could get lost in those, I'll have you know."
He smiled, experiencing an almost overwhelming rush of affection for the silly, old-fashioned young woman beside him. "But it's so much more than that," she continued. "You're kind, brilliant, sophisticated, with a devastating wit and a vocabulary that rivals Roget's Thesaurus." He had to chuckle at this. "It's as if God saw my checklist of qualities I find attractive in a man, ticked all the boxes, and said, 'Here you go. Enjoy with my blessing.'"
Quite unexpectedly, Charles felt his pulse quicken at her praise. "Take care, darling," he said, his voice husky. "All this flattery is liable to make me conceited and vain."
Malone graced him with a crooked smile, and he found himself transfixed by the deep red color of her lips. "Oh, well," she murmured, leaning in close. "We certainly can't have that."
Grasping her chin between his thumb and forefinger, he tilted her head back and brought her mouth up to meet his. She sighed softly, melting bonelessly against him and winding her arms around his neck. Her pleasure was so ingenuous, so wonderfully sincere, that it sent a surge of desire coursing through his veins.
"Did I mention your lips?" she whispered. "Because I really should have."
He groaned, pressing her body closer to his. As he kissed her feverishly, his hands moved over her soft shoulders, up her neck, and into her hair, pulling it out of its chignon and letting it fall through his fingers. He felt her own short fingernails graze the nape of his neck, and he gave a shudder, his eyes rolling back in his head in pure, unadulterated bliss.
"Oh, Malone," he murmured. "My sweet, beautiful girl."
"Oh, God, Charles," she breathed, her hands slipping down to grasp his tie. "I love you so much."
The kiss continued to grow in intensity, their hands beginning to wander, their breaths becoming short and labored. This was unlike any of their previous kisses. They had all been chaste and gentle, save for that first kiss on the porch of Mrs. Lim's farmhouse, which already seemed a lifetime ago. But even this felt different. This was laced with urgency, with raw, desperate need.
His head swimming, he shrugged out of his jacket and removed his tie before pulling her against him once again. He kissed her deeply, parting her lips with his, relishing the sensation of her shaky, delicate fingers clutching at his back. As he moved his mouth to the juncture between her neck and shoulder, she moaned, nearly driving him mad.
"Don't stop," she gasped.
"Perish the thought," he whispered against her.
She was so soft and warm in his arms. So trusting. Settling his hands on her waist, he proceeded to shower her skin with reverent kisses, and the sound of her breath catching in her throat was more exquisite than any symphony or aria he had ever heard.
"You were the answer to my prayers, you know," he said between kisses.
She hummed softly, her hand curled behind his neck. "What do you mean?"
His fingers ghosted over her shoulder blades, making her shiver slightly. "Before you came," he said slowly, "I was... very low. I asked God for something, anything to make my life here worth living."
"Oh, Charles." She reached up and cupped the side of his face tenderly. "I never knew that."
He smiled into her skin. "Actually, I asked for beluga caviar. And I got you instead."
With a breathy chuckle, she turned and brushed her lips against his jaw. "Disappointed?"
"Mmm," he murmured, moving her necklace aside and placing another kiss in the hollow of her throat. "I'll muddle through somehow."
She whimpered inarticulately, causing him to grin as he continued to kiss every bit of exposed skin he could find. He had wanted to do this ever since he first laid eyes on her in this dress. Now that the moment had arrived, he could hardly believe it was actually happening. As his lips reached her earlobe, he grazed it lightly with his teeth. Then he felt a shiver of his own as her hands found their way to his shirt collar and began to unfasten the first button.
Suddenly there was a knock at the door, causing them to fly apart with a shared gasp. Quickly, Malone snatched her napkin up from the table and made a hurried effort to wipe away her smudged lipstick. "If that's Danny, he is grounded for life," she growled under her breath. "I don't care how old he is."
Charles was in full agreement with her proposal. After wiping hastily at his own lips, he stood up, attempting to smooth the wrinkles out of his clothes. "Who is it?" he called out in a measured tone, trying to gain control of his wildly beating heart.
"It's Potter," came the familiar gravelly voice of the camp's beloved leader.
Charles glanced at Malone, who merely shrugged in confusion. "Come in, Colonel," he replied.
The door swung open, and Potter stepped inside, folding his hands behind his back. "Evening, Major," he said with a nod. "Lieutenant."
He looked around the little room, taking in the flickering candles, Malone's rumpled dress and disheveled hair, and Charles's own suit jacket and tie, which had been tossed haphazardly on the floor. Mercifully, he chose not to comment on them.
"I have some news," he said without preamble. "Winchester, you'd better sit down for this."
Charles frowned in mounting trepidation, but did as he was told, taking a seat on the bed beside Malone. "What is it, Colonel?" he inquired cautiously.
Potter took a deep breath. "Malone is being transferred," he said quietly. "To the Evac hospital in Tokyo."
The colonel's words had the same effect on Charles as a blow to the solar plexus. He looked over at Malone, who appeared to be experiencing a similar affliction. "When?" he managed to ask in a strangled voice.
"As soon as she's strong enough to handle the trip," Potter answered gravely. It was obvious he was not pleased to be the bearer of this particular bit of bad news. "And from there, as you know, it's a one-way ticket back to San Francisco."
Charles was speechless. Objectively, he knew that it was inevitable. There was no way Malone could stay at the 4077th in her condition; it simply wasn't practical. But if he was being truly honest with himself, he had to admit that he had completely failed to prepare for this eventuality. The thought of being parted from his Malone was too much to bear. He wouldn't allow it.
Suddenly an idea occurred to him, igniting him with hope. "Colonel," he said, his tone carefully even, "I respectfully request your permission to accompany Malone to Tokyo, as her attending physician."
But Potter was already shaking his head. "No can do, Major. I'm sorry, but I just can't spare you. Your place is here."
"My place is at her side," Charles fired back, losing his patience.
He felt Malone's hand on his arm. "It's all right, Charles," she told him in a low voice. "I knew I wouldn't be able to keep you all to myself. You're needed here."
Charles exhaled loudly in frustration. This simply couldn't be happening. After everything they had gone through to get to this point, it was inconceivable that they should be separated in this cold, abrupt manner. But he wouldn't give up so easily.
He forced himself to take a deep, calming breath. "If we can find a replacement for me," he said, "will you reconsider?"
The colonel sighed. "I'll see what I can do," he replied. "Just keep in mind that I can't make any promises. So try not to get your hopes up."
Charles nodded, and Potter regarded him with a sympathetic look. Stepping forward, he laid a hand on each of their shoulders. "I'm sorry I had to be the one to tell you," he said softly. "I really am."
After bidding them both good night, he turned and left the tent. Immediately Charles pulled Malone into his arms, drawing her close. As she buried her face into his shirtfront, he rubbed her back soothingly, trying his best not to yield to the devastation that threatened to engulf him.
"I believe it's still your move," he heard himself say, staring numbly at their unfinished game of Go on the table.
Malone tightened her hold on him. "Let's just say you won," she murmured.
He closed his eyes, letting his fingers sink into her thick hair as he rested his chin on top of her head.
Then why does it feel like I've lost?
A/N: Sherman Potter, Date Ruiner. Coming to a steamy rendezvous near you.
So, there are two things I wanted to address at this point. The first is Charles's age in this story. Apparently, when David Ogden Stiers joined the cast of M*A*S*H, he was thirty-five. (Younger than Alan Alda! I had no idea.) Of course, by the time the series ended, he was six years older. So I decided to split the difference and say he's thirty-eight. It seemed reasonable.
The other thing, which I imagine some of you have been wondering about, is the matter of Martine. Personally, I think she's adorable, but she's also a little problematic; at least, where this story is concerned. And so, as much as I hate defying canon, I'm choosing not to mention her in this story. If you like, you can pretend that she and Charles met before Nellie came to the 4077th. I realize that at that point, Klinger had been made a sergeant, but we can stretch our imaginations a little. After all, the M*A*S*H writers didn't always stick to canon, either. Eleven years' worth of episodes is a lot to cram into a three-and-a-half-year war.
Anyway, that was all. Please leave a review, if you have the time. Reviews are lovely. And Happy Labor Day! Treat yourself to an episode of M*A*S*H on me.
-Octopus