"I said 'humor him', Blake, not 'egg him on,'" warned Potter in a low tone.
Margaret vacated the chair she had sunk into earlier, and allowed the more than a little distressed-looking Lieutenant Colonel to slide down onto the well-worn wooden surface. Ever since his interchange with Mulcahy, her businesslike mask, already cracked a bit by the surprise of Henry's return to the living, had melted into one of full-fledged concern for Henry's well- being. Frank seemed to notice the change in her attitude and, as always followed suit, his nonexistent lower lip protruding a bit as he went to stand behind his Major.
Henry crossed one leg over another and, in a rather serious gesture, laid his hands atop the surface of his calf. He knew the draining feeling well by now. He knew what it would eventually mean. Mulcahy's words had conjured up in him images of more furtive attacks on-- on children, no less, and unsuspecting doctors just trying to do a job, on nurses in the night, on patients who would mysteriously die after flawless operations. He knew that bringing the truth out now would be the best thing for everyone.
"And I said (respectfully, sir, of course,) that Father Mulcahy is right. About everything."
"Everything, Blake? Let me get this right," Potter perched incredulously on the edge of his desk. "That would make you--" he hesitated.
"Dead. Yes, sir." Henry affirmed.
"You are aware that you have a pulse?"
"Yes, I know, I put it there. Or, rather, my heart put it there, but it wasn't doing that before, that's... ahh... a recent development." He struggled for words, and found, of course the most appropriate military phraseology.
"A recent development..." echoed Potter. "You mean to tell me that your ticker just started ticking? And it never had before?"
Henry nodded affirmative. "Not since the crash, sir."
"Colonel Blake, sir?" piped up a quiet and timid looking Radar from a crack in the double doors approximately two inches wide. Nobody in the room had any doubt that the clerk had heard all from his position at the phones. "Your wife, sir."
In the encounter with Mulcahy, Henry had almost forgotten. He stood again, and was halfway to the door when he stopped. "No. I ought to get this settled out with you all, first," looking back at the group. "Radar," he added, settling a hand on the boy's shoulder in the normal fatherly manner he'd been accustomed to taking with him.
"I'll tell her you're alright, sir, and that you'll call up later. Yes, sir."
"Tell her that I'm just fine and that I'll-- thanks, Radar," Henry murmured. "Then you should probably come back in here." He added, calling after the clerk as he went back to his post and picked up the phone.
Turning back to face Potter and the rest of the group, "Um. Where was I?"
"The part about your being dead, Henry," encouraged Mulcahy, stepping toward him, no longer intimidating and threatening, and more like his normal self now that he'd gotten the desired confession.
"Oh." Henry uttered uncomfortably, "Righty-o."
Mulcahy, taking up a prompting and somewhat forceful tone, edged closer. "Now, were you or were you not the one who tried to kill Hawkeye?"
Henry, overcome with guilt, looked down to the floor, "Look, Father, Hawkeye's going to be just fine."
"That's not the point. And you know it."
Henry made a somewhat resigned sound. "Yep. I know it, Father." He looked up, his face contorted slightly with the guilt of Hawkeye's blood on his hands, or fangs, or whatever. "But you've got to know that I really didn't mean to--" his eyes met Mulcahy's, "Well, I guess I did, but I didn't want to--" their eyes met again, and Henry felt compelled toward the truth. "Oh, fine, I wanted to, okay? I admit it! But I /do/ feel /really/ //really// bad about it. And that's a fact."
Mulcahy searched Henry's face for a moment, then nodded and seemed to accept this as truth.
"Wait a minute." Potter resumed, now wholly serious, and not at all sarcastic in his tone. This was the health of his chief surgeon, after all. "Are you saying that whatever happened to Pierce was your fault, Blake?"
"That's what he's saying, Colonel," Hawkeye readily answered from the doorway. "I should know. I was there."
When Henry spun around back toward the door, Hawkeye gave him a dull smirk. "It was good to see you again, too, Henry. But maybe next time a simple handshake would do. Hm?"
~
Margaret vacated the chair she had sunk into earlier, and allowed the more than a little distressed-looking Lieutenant Colonel to slide down onto the well-worn wooden surface. Ever since his interchange with Mulcahy, her businesslike mask, already cracked a bit by the surprise of Henry's return to the living, had melted into one of full-fledged concern for Henry's well- being. Frank seemed to notice the change in her attitude and, as always followed suit, his nonexistent lower lip protruding a bit as he went to stand behind his Major.
Henry crossed one leg over another and, in a rather serious gesture, laid his hands atop the surface of his calf. He knew the draining feeling well by now. He knew what it would eventually mean. Mulcahy's words had conjured up in him images of more furtive attacks on-- on children, no less, and unsuspecting doctors just trying to do a job, on nurses in the night, on patients who would mysteriously die after flawless operations. He knew that bringing the truth out now would be the best thing for everyone.
"And I said (respectfully, sir, of course,) that Father Mulcahy is right. About everything."
"Everything, Blake? Let me get this right," Potter perched incredulously on the edge of his desk. "That would make you--" he hesitated.
"Dead. Yes, sir." Henry affirmed.
"You are aware that you have a pulse?"
"Yes, I know, I put it there. Or, rather, my heart put it there, but it wasn't doing that before, that's... ahh... a recent development." He struggled for words, and found, of course the most appropriate military phraseology.
"A recent development..." echoed Potter. "You mean to tell me that your ticker just started ticking? And it never had before?"
Henry nodded affirmative. "Not since the crash, sir."
"Colonel Blake, sir?" piped up a quiet and timid looking Radar from a crack in the double doors approximately two inches wide. Nobody in the room had any doubt that the clerk had heard all from his position at the phones. "Your wife, sir."
In the encounter with Mulcahy, Henry had almost forgotten. He stood again, and was halfway to the door when he stopped. "No. I ought to get this settled out with you all, first," looking back at the group. "Radar," he added, settling a hand on the boy's shoulder in the normal fatherly manner he'd been accustomed to taking with him.
"I'll tell her you're alright, sir, and that you'll call up later. Yes, sir."
"Tell her that I'm just fine and that I'll-- thanks, Radar," Henry murmured. "Then you should probably come back in here." He added, calling after the clerk as he went back to his post and picked up the phone.
Turning back to face Potter and the rest of the group, "Um. Where was I?"
"The part about your being dead, Henry," encouraged Mulcahy, stepping toward him, no longer intimidating and threatening, and more like his normal self now that he'd gotten the desired confession.
"Oh." Henry uttered uncomfortably, "Righty-o."
Mulcahy, taking up a prompting and somewhat forceful tone, edged closer. "Now, were you or were you not the one who tried to kill Hawkeye?"
Henry, overcome with guilt, looked down to the floor, "Look, Father, Hawkeye's going to be just fine."
"That's not the point. And you know it."
Henry made a somewhat resigned sound. "Yep. I know it, Father." He looked up, his face contorted slightly with the guilt of Hawkeye's blood on his hands, or fangs, or whatever. "But you've got to know that I really didn't mean to--" his eyes met Mulcahy's, "Well, I guess I did, but I didn't want to--" their eyes met again, and Henry felt compelled toward the truth. "Oh, fine, I wanted to, okay? I admit it! But I /do/ feel /really/ //really// bad about it. And that's a fact."
Mulcahy searched Henry's face for a moment, then nodded and seemed to accept this as truth.
"Wait a minute." Potter resumed, now wholly serious, and not at all sarcastic in his tone. This was the health of his chief surgeon, after all. "Are you saying that whatever happened to Pierce was your fault, Blake?"
"That's what he's saying, Colonel," Hawkeye readily answered from the doorway. "I should know. I was there."
When Henry spun around back toward the door, Hawkeye gave him a dull smirk. "It was good to see you again, too, Henry. But maybe next time a simple handshake would do. Hm?"
~