Even after the physical exertion of the day's fun, even after spending
almost twenty-four hours awake, Sparky only needed a few good hours of
sleep to awake refreshed. He shifted in bed and tried to call back the
dream he'd been having; he called to the tribal women, dark skin marked in
darker tattoos in queer patterns over their bare undulating skin as they
danced their wild savage dances, and squeezed the football in his arms,
trying to hold the sight there as the vampiric blood in his system roused
his wakefulness on the one hand and his passion on the other.
He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to shake off his waking, to slip back into the soft snuggle of the rough army blankets. Finally, from some door, open, somewhere, a cold night breeze reached his bed and he shot up, the football dropping to the floor with a dull thud.
"Yes, ma'am, I'm up," he yelped as his eyes shot open. But, looking around, he didn't see the face of his master's Toreador wife which he'd normally begun to associate with such cool drafts.
There was nobody in the tent.
His still-waking mind took a few moments to register the sight of the football rolling around on the floor, and the absence of a certain item of immense importance missing from his bedside. But when it did, it sent a chill much more fierce than any a cold Korean evening or the icy aura of an ancient vampire could have to offer running in terror through Sparky's innermost marrow.
Beginning to breathe hard, his heart beginning to race, he squeezed his eyes shut, hoping that he was still dreaming, that he'd open his eyes and either return to being king of the wild amazon women or, at the very least, a ghoul who was NOT about to be tortured and killed by his regnant.
"Oh, Christ, oh, Christ..." he mumbled hectically to himself when he opened his eyes and found the world very much as he had left in a few seconds previously. He leapt up, then fell to the ground, looking under the cot. Not there. In frustration he lifted the side of the cot and hurled it on its side to get a better look. Still not there. He kicked the cot into a corner of the tent. Still not there. He turned his anxious rage toward the rest of the tent.
Outside, Radar, hurrying by with his arms loaded up with drinks, turned his head to quickly survey the swamp, from which a more and more hasty clattering sound could be heard. He hurried himself up and soon was at the entryway to that plywood and scrap-metal construction off of post-op that served as a diagnostic center during the surgery hour and alternate poker room to the Swamp during the happy hour. Hawkeye and Colonel Potter were standing outside the door, waiting for him.
Radar looked back over his shoulder toward the swamp, shuffling his burden around in such a non-attentive matter that it seemed that all the various bottled, cups, and ices would go clattering to the ground, but he managed to put a dink into each of the others' hands as he whispered, "I think he might be awake," and scuttled inside.
"Good, thanks, Radar..." Hawkeye called quietly after him, then looked down at the drink in his hand. Potter looked down at his, and sighed. They switched drinks.
"Look, Pierce, I haven't known you all that long, but I think you're a pretty trustworthy young man. So if you say that Henry Blake isn't in league with those other three, I'm inclined to believe you. But I want you to think, and I want you to think hard: now that Blake's... one of them... would he be inclined to be... /one of them/?"
"I know you're concerned, Colonel. But our Henry... he's never been one of 'them,' whoever the 'them' of the day might have been. He's never been anything other than one of a kind."
Potter nodded gravely, and lifted the drink, Hawkeye mirroring his action. Potter's forehead rippled in a frank expression. "I have a feeling I'm going to need this."
A short gesture of toasting from the two, and Hawkeye smiled, "To life, and all the insanity thereof."
~
He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to shake off his waking, to slip back into the soft snuggle of the rough army blankets. Finally, from some door, open, somewhere, a cold night breeze reached his bed and he shot up, the football dropping to the floor with a dull thud.
"Yes, ma'am, I'm up," he yelped as his eyes shot open. But, looking around, he didn't see the face of his master's Toreador wife which he'd normally begun to associate with such cool drafts.
There was nobody in the tent.
His still-waking mind took a few moments to register the sight of the football rolling around on the floor, and the absence of a certain item of immense importance missing from his bedside. But when it did, it sent a chill much more fierce than any a cold Korean evening or the icy aura of an ancient vampire could have to offer running in terror through Sparky's innermost marrow.
Beginning to breathe hard, his heart beginning to race, he squeezed his eyes shut, hoping that he was still dreaming, that he'd open his eyes and either return to being king of the wild amazon women or, at the very least, a ghoul who was NOT about to be tortured and killed by his regnant.
"Oh, Christ, oh, Christ..." he mumbled hectically to himself when he opened his eyes and found the world very much as he had left in a few seconds previously. He leapt up, then fell to the ground, looking under the cot. Not there. In frustration he lifted the side of the cot and hurled it on its side to get a better look. Still not there. He kicked the cot into a corner of the tent. Still not there. He turned his anxious rage toward the rest of the tent.
Outside, Radar, hurrying by with his arms loaded up with drinks, turned his head to quickly survey the swamp, from which a more and more hasty clattering sound could be heard. He hurried himself up and soon was at the entryway to that plywood and scrap-metal construction off of post-op that served as a diagnostic center during the surgery hour and alternate poker room to the Swamp during the happy hour. Hawkeye and Colonel Potter were standing outside the door, waiting for him.
Radar looked back over his shoulder toward the swamp, shuffling his burden around in such a non-attentive matter that it seemed that all the various bottled, cups, and ices would go clattering to the ground, but he managed to put a dink into each of the others' hands as he whispered, "I think he might be awake," and scuttled inside.
"Good, thanks, Radar..." Hawkeye called quietly after him, then looked down at the drink in his hand. Potter looked down at his, and sighed. They switched drinks.
"Look, Pierce, I haven't known you all that long, but I think you're a pretty trustworthy young man. So if you say that Henry Blake isn't in league with those other three, I'm inclined to believe you. But I want you to think, and I want you to think hard: now that Blake's... one of them... would he be inclined to be... /one of them/?"
"I know you're concerned, Colonel. But our Henry... he's never been one of 'them,' whoever the 'them' of the day might have been. He's never been anything other than one of a kind."
Potter nodded gravely, and lifted the drink, Hawkeye mirroring his action. Potter's forehead rippled in a frank expression. "I have a feeling I'm going to need this."
A short gesture of toasting from the two, and Hawkeye smiled, "To life, and all the insanity thereof."
~