Title: Gift For Mortals
Author: Kristin
Pairing: Charles/Margaret
Disclaimer: I do not own them. If I did, you know what I'd do with them
Summary: Margaret isn't immortal, after all. C/M
Notes: The poem at the end is the first sonnet from Elizabeth Barrett Browning's Sonnets from the Portugese

As he turned his head from the sun which implored a wakefulness he wanted nothing to do with, Charles remembered wanting to ask Margaret about a Browning sonnet he'd recently reread and thought she would appreciate. He wasn't certain he'd see her much today, outside of breakfast, so he finally dug his elbow into the mattress, using it to elevate his torso.

The book lay facedown, opened to the page containing the sonnet, and he picked it up, briefly reading a few lines silently before setting it down again and pulling on his olive-green pants. It was hotter today than yesterday, and his t-shirt stuck to his chest with burgeoning drops of sweat.

Hands in his pockets, he made his way to the mess tent, continuing to silently recite the lines in his head, and he smiled as he spotted Margaret getting a cup of coffee. He quickly filled up his tray and took a seat next to her, noticing she had no food before her.

"Haven't an appetite this morning?" he implored.

She shook her head. "I wasn't hungry last night, either," she commented, a hollow lilt in her voice.

He paused a moment before dipping his fork into the powdered egg concotion before him.

"I was reading an Elizabeth Browning sonnet last night and wanted to peruse it with you later, if time is generous."

She nodded and smiled slightly, but her gaze was averted from his eyes to a vacant spot on the far tent wall. He noted, now, her slightly shaking hands clasping the coffee mug between them. Expanding his gaze, he noticed a slight tremble seemed to be overtaking her entire body. If it were winter, he would think nothing of it. But in this heat, her shivering limbs were cause for concern.

"Margaret, are you feeling well?" he laid a gentle hand at the crux of her elbow.

"I ate something that isn't agreeing with me."

"When? You haven't eaten since lunch yesterday."

He continued to look her over.

"Margaret--" he persisted.

"Charles, I'm fine!"

She set the coffee mug down, pushing it away from her, and went to stand up. As she was doing so, a severe pain ripped across her abdomen, causing her to clutch at it in pain and double over. Charles dropped the fork he'd still been holding loosely in his hand, wrapping an arm around her back as she bent forward.

"I think something's wrong," she now admitted, the trembling increasing in intensity.

Charles touched her cheek with the back of his hand, alarmed at the heat emanating from her skin. He got off the bench and knelt in front of her, holding both her hands in an attempt to calm her anxiety.

"Margaret, listen to me. Can you tell me exactly how you feel?" he implored, hoping to get an accurate description of her ailment, should it worsen with unwanted expedition.

"I had these aches last night, that's why I didn't eat. It's--" She hunched forward even further, and he tightened his grip on her hands. By now, the commotion had disturbed everyone around them and he could feel, if not hear, Father Mulcahy's worried presence behind him.

"Major, should I get Colonel Potter?"

Charles nodded, adding, "Get Pierce and Hunnicutt, too."

"--worse now," Margaret whispered, finishing her latent thought.

Charles smiled, convincingly, for her sake. "What else?"

"Nausea. Fever."

Her body seemed to be agreeing with the last statement, as she continued to shake, a sure sign her fever was rising. Charles moved his thumbs in a stroking motion across her wrists, eventually stopping to take her pulse. Rapid. He heard Colonel Potter coming and stood quickly, prepared to help move Margaret to a bed. As he stood, Margaret bent her head almost to her knees, vomiting violently, and Colonel Potter rushed over, standing at Margaret's left shoulder.

"Winchester--" he began.

Charles held up a hand. "Colonel, let's get her to a bed first."

He put an arm around Margaret's waist, helping her stand. Potter took her arm, and Margaret divided her weight between the two of them. A few steps, however, and it was clear that her knees would not support her. Despite his doubt that she would allow him to, Charles lifted her into his arms. As her head lolled into his neck and silence persisted, rather than the screech of her vehement protestation, he became fully aware of the extent of her illness.

As soon as he laid her on a bed in the OR, Hawkeye and B.J. appeared beside him, gazing at Margaret with the same look of anxious helplessness he was digesting the bitter taste of. Hawkeye took her blood pressure as Colonel Potter checked her pulse.

"Her pressure's too low," Hawkeye remarked, unsnapping the velcro.

"Pulse is rapid," Potter supplied.

Charles laid his left hand atop his right, placing both against the right side of her abdomen. He held the pressure there for a few seconds, then released, unsurprised when she whimpered.

"Her appendix."

Charles nodded.

"Appendix?" Margaret whispered.

Potter placed a hand on her forearm, allowing it to lay there briefly while they discussed the proper course of action.

"This isn't just her appendix, Charles," Hawkeye declared, feeling her abdomen as well.

"No, I think it's burst," Charles replied.

"Peritonitis?" B.J. wondered, his voice dipping only slightly at the prospect of it.

"Explains her blood pressure and heart rate."

"I'll get the morphine."

If she had the strength, she would've admonished them for talking exclusively around her, though she supposed at the moment she couldn't begrudge them; she wasn't exactly capable of a lively two-sided conversation. She could only hope she would be spared the "You'll be in good hands, kiddo" remark she was sure would be leaving Potter's lips any minute now. Or even Hawkeye's. As Colonel Potter moved slightly away from her, standing at the foot of her bed, she moved her right hand over, brushing a finger against Charles's hand, which still remained on the bed.

"I'm so warm," she said, finding it strange to talk to him this way--looking up at him.

"Shall I turn off the sun?" he joked with a slight smile, hoping an allusion to the intense heat surrounding all of them would ease her mind away, briefly, from the palpable fever clinging to her flesh. Nurse Kellye suddenly appeared next to him, handing him an ice pack as she did her part to bring down Margaret's temperature, placing an ice pack under her neck and upon other various areas of her body.

Charles placed the ice pack he held in his hand on her forehead. A slight gasp at the frigid tendrils assaulting her skin quickly gave way to gratitude at the soothing effect it had on her. With no one looking directly at her, Charles used his free hand to stroke her hair behind her ear. The ice would help her feel cooler, but it would do little, in the window of time they were allotted, to bring her fever down significantly. They would have to operate on her, regardless. Dangerous. And the ice in his hand breathed into his bloodstream. Dangerous.

B.J. returned with a syringe of morphine; a relief they could provide for now while the ice absorbed the infectious heat. He smiled at her (thankfully void of patronization) and administered the medicine, standing up and exchanging a glance with Charles, who continued to press the ice pack to her forehead and cheeks. B.J. patted her shoulder and left to join Hawkeye in scrubbing in.

"Charles, what's--" Margaret tried to turn her head, feeling the effects of the morphine already as the movement required her to exert considerable effort.

"Shh, shh," he set the ice pack down, trailing a finger over her cheek. Her eyelids drooped, despite her attempts to remain awake.

"Margaret, stop protesting," he chided, knowing she was nearly beyond hearing him. "You'll be fine."

As her eyes finally slid shut, he knelt down, furtively placing a kiss upon her forehead.

"Winchester, you gonna scrub in?"

"Coming, sir."

"Did she say anything?" Hawkeye mused from behind his surgical mask.

"Not a word," B.J. remarked.

"Considering the deviation from normacly we've so far observed today, I consider her reticence to be a comfort, for its sheer predictability," Charles added.

"Typical, stubborn Margaret. Lucky we caught it in time."

Just as Charles, and the others, had suspected, the appendix ruptured and the resulting fluid had spread to the peritoneum, causing a deadly infection to set in. Inwardly, they all drew sighs of relief at their apparent good fortune in having caught it in time.

"So, how complacent do you think she'll be?"

He wasn't sure he believed in luck, or divine intervention, but something had aligned today, for numerous reasons, one of which meant he was assigned to late-night rounds and would more than likely be the first to administer to Margaret when she came around. Lingering effects of the anesthesia, coupled with the morphine, meant her continued unconsciousness was nothing to fret over just yet.

He observed the other patients, content in everyone's stability, and took a seat at the desk, making errant notes. The Browning book of sonnets lay on the chair next to Margaret's bed, a sort of anticipatory prelude.

Roughly half an hour later, Margaret's right arm moved, stretching across her stomach, and her head turned until it was facing him. He sat, still, waiting to see if she was coming around. Eventually, her eyelids fluttered, opening at last, and the corner of her mouth crooked up as she saw him. He moved to take the seat by her bedside, placing the book on his lap for now as he gently took her hand in his.

"All right?" she managed, her tongue leaden with extra weight and feeling much like sandpaper.

"Perfect," he smiled, brushing errant stands of hair away from her eyes.

He watched her adoringly as she struggled to keep her eyes open.

"Think I'll watch you with the lights off."

"You only need to listen," he informed her as he opened the book with his free hand, using the other to bring her hand to his lips, kissing her fingers gently.

"I thought once how Theocritus had sung

Of the sweet years, the dear and wished-for years,

Who each one in a gracious hand appears

To bear a gift for mortals, old or young;

And, as I mused it in his antique tongue,

I saw, in gradual vision through my tears,

The sweet, sad years, the melancholy years,

Those of my own life, who by turns had flung

A shadow across me. Straightaway I was 'ware,

So weeping, how a mystic Shape did move

Behind me, and drew me backward by the hair;

And a voice said in mastery, while I strove,--

Guess now who holds thee?--Death, I said, But there,

The silver answer rang,--Not Death, but Love."

As he recited the last verse, he felt grateful she had descended into Morpheus's arms, unable to see the slight tremble at his mouth, or hear the crack in his voice. He was grateful for his own certainties, then. As he set the book down, dropping a kiss on her forehead, and tucking the blanket around her shoulders, he was certain he couldn't err by putting faith in the permanence of intangibles--

Like love.

fin.