title: Baptism of Fire

author: Kristin

rating: pg-13

disclaimer: I don't own these characters. I promise.

summary: The chill in the air, pulling secrets from lungs like hot breath. Eventual C/M

notes: This takes place very, very shortly after the Season 11 episode "Say No More" because of the "kiss" which I make a slight reference to and quickly progress from. The title is actually one of my favorite "words" and (the muse to my fingers) defines it as: a severe ordeal experienced for the first time


His fingers curled around the steering wheel, a bit more lax than they had been earlier when the light of day provided made him worry about any enemy troops that might spot them. It was a thought more than likely closer to paranoia than pragmatism, but it was there nonetheless. The descending sun was a slight relief. The silence beyond tires in the dirt was also welcome, initially, but he was suddenly starting to desire a little interaction with his female cohort, presently slumped against her seat with her head facing him. It was still cold enough in the daytime, but the night air brought an even greater chill and Margaret was only wearing her thin coat. He thought perhaps he'd wake her shortly and advise her to put on the sweater she'd brought.

Then again, she might denounce his mother-hen advice and continue as she was.

They hadn't discussed the kiss she'd given him in the Mess Tent a week ago, but it was certainly cycling through his mind, a ponderance which elicited, still, surprise and even optimism. Since he'd been at the 4077th, he'd had so little opportunity, or desire, even, to forge any romantic attachments. While closest to Margaret of all his colleagues, the idea of her being more than just a friend was suddenly brought to the forefront of his mind with surprising, and stark clarity. He would admit he'd always been attracted to her, physically, even intellectually; she wasn't on par with many of the social elite in Boston, but she was clever and forthright, with wit and ingenuity and tenacity. He would've never imagined being interested in someone like her, in Boston. But there was dirt beneath him and blood staining his hands daily and even his knuckles were stiffer than they ever were. So, it was all different. Sometimes, he thought, it would do to have another hand, a steady hand, wrap around his own when even he would feel a tremble.

His thoughts were disrupted as he noticed Margaret sliding further down in her seat. He feared she might slide far enough to hit her head, so he carefully maneuvered himself closer to her, keeping one hand on the wheel, as he allowed her head to rest on his shoulder. A few moments later, however, she started whimpering. He cast a quick glance at her face, wondering if he should wake her, but didn't need to ponder it further, as she awoke and quickly lifted her head off his shoulder, crossing her arms over her chest. He expected her to make a reference to the position she'd found herself in, but she didn't; merely, stared ahead.

"It's getting dark," she mumbled.

"Yes, typically what happens when the sun descends."

She shivered.

"Along with that," he added. He wanted to mention the sweater, but decided not to just yet.

He glanced at her, wanting to know what had disturbed her sleep, but he wasn't sure how his probing would be taken. Would she appreciate it as a gesture of concern, out of friendship? Or would she be defensive, uncomfortable with the thought that he'd witnessed a sliver of her vulnerability?

"Bad dream?" he started.

When she shrugged, he took it as an initially good sign and decided to forge ahead. He was heading into uncharted territories; though they had always shared an easy, close rapport, tempered with passionate, sometimes hot-headed banter, they had never really dug into one another's psyche. And he, himself, had certainly never shared among friends what he was about to reveal.

"It's sometimes hard to sleep through the night here. Memories," he approached, cautiously.

"I'm sorry to hear that, Major. Did you need me to read you a story tonight, is that what you're getting at?" her voice rose in annoyance.

He sighed.

"I merely wanted--"

"I don't want to discuss this."

He paused a moment, sighing.

"I had a dream, where I'd forgotten everything. Everything I'd learned in med school, just...gone. Everyone was worried, yelling at me, imploring me to hurry. The patient was losing blood rapidly--a lacerated artery. The only thing I could do, that I could remember, was to stave off the flow of blood. But it was seeping through the gauze and covering my hands, my clothes. I was helpless."

His hands tightened on the steering wheel again. He'd never opened up to anyone to that extent before, giving insight to his emotions. Maybe it had something to do with the chill in the air, pulling secrets from lungs like hot breath.

Margaret uncrossed her arms, looking at him now, a soft look upon her face.

"Charles, that's--you've never been like this before, shared with me, I'm--"

"Reciprocity, Margaret, is not yet dead," he said, prodding her gently.

She sighed and nodded.

"I feel silly about it now, after hearing your dream."

He turned his gaze towards her again, pressing her with his eyes.

"Right, right, reciprocity. Okay, well, I've been having this dream for three days now where we're all walking in the forest and it's raining and we're slipping in the mud. Then we see a clearing ahead, with these...rays of sunshine shooting into it. So we hurry towards it and as we get there, the land suddenly splits open and everyone starts falling off the earth into--into...nothing. And then someone comes up and says, 'Didn't you know that the world was flat?' And that's it."

He glanced at her before asking, "What did the person look like?"

"Charles," she swatted his arm forcefully.

"Winston Churchill," she admitted.

"Well, I don't know what that means. What would Dr. Freedman say?"

"He'd probably joke around and ask me if I harbored an attraction to Winston Churchill."

"Do you?"

She swatted him again, this time with a smile on her face.

"So what's troubling you about it, then?"

"Besides the fact that all of my friends die, you mean?"

"But it's not as though you caused the earth to self-destruct."

"I couldn't stop it, either. And I should've known that the world was flat."

"Do you always have such abstract dreams, Major?" Charles smirked.

Their easy banter was halted as the jeep suddenly made a lurching sound and smoke started rising from the engine. Charles, quickly panicked by the sight, lost sight control of the wheel and drove over a sharp tree branch, which punctured the left front tire. All movement immediately ceased, and he leant back in his seat, rubbing a hand over his head. The steam sizzled as it was continually emitted.

"Great, Winchester, just great!" Margaret threw her hands up in the air, quickly exiting her side to stand in front of the engine.

"I beg your pardon; what did I do?"

"If you hadn't blown the tire out back there, I might've been able to fix the engine and get us home."

"If you could fix the engine, Major."

She slammed her hands on the hood. "And why couldn't I? Oh, right, I'm a woman!"

He slammed his hand now. "Major! I--"

And cut himself off, sighing. Margaret slid her hands off the hood in acquiescence, shoving them into her pockets.

"I'm sorry, Charles, I--"

He waved his hand at her.

"Is there any way you can fix the engine and we could make it back with one deficient tire?"

"If we weren't very far, I'd say we could try it, but we're still a considerable distance from camp. The engine's overheated. We could let it cool a bit and try to start it up again. If that doesn't work--"

"We go on foot."

Neither, of course, eager to walk back to camp, given the dangers around them.


She screeched, hitting the steering wheel with vehement disgust.

"This damn thing!" she cursed loudly, for the fifth time in a row. Although, this time, her choice of words was tamer.

"Another expletive, Major, will do the trick, I'm certain."

She glared at him and crossed her arms on the wheel, laying her head down. The sun had nearly set. It was getting colder with each encroaching sliver of darkness.

"All right, Winchester, grab what we need and let's move it out," she muttered, disgusted resignation in her voice. As she exited the jeep, she grabbed her duffel bag.

They had been sent to the 8063rd to provide extra assistance, but for merely a day; something, for which, they were both grateful, as it meant relatively little luggage. Charles carried his own duffel bag and the medical bag he'd used to store his stethoscope and various first aid essentials.

Charles noticed Margaret shivering a little more intensely, now that she'd ceased abusing the exanimate truck.

"Margaret, might I suggest, before we embark any further, that you put on the extra sweater you're toting?"

She gave him a pointed look and slung the bag across her shoulders, tucking her hands firmly into her pockets.

"I put it on before we left the 8063rd. I was freezing."

He tried to quelch the tinge of worry creeping upon him. She was cold before they'd left, and that was afternoon, with the slight warmth of the midday sun. Now it was dusk and colder, and she continued to shiver. He was also colder, but he'd packed a little extra, and was grateful for the barrier his two thick sweaters and thin coat provided.

"I'll be fine, let's just...worry about getting there. I think hypothermia is the least of our problems."

As if in response to her statement, a distant blast of gunfire startled them, and they instinctively walked closer together.


"...and Yeats, also wonderful," Margaret remarked, after they'd been walking for close to an hour. Sometimes the sight of her breath frozen in stasis by the cold air still mesmerized her. So she very languidly drew her breaths in and out, savoring the sight of seeing life, in a sense.

"Quite. And Irish, to boot. I suppose they do more than produce souses."

She gave him a slight glare and opened her mouth to say something, but he held up his hand.

"Let me retract, and amend that. They produced you--a woman of beauty and tenderness--so they must be worthy of nothing less than the utmost praise."

Margaret laughed at that.

"Donna did tell me you give the longest compliments. Most people would've just said, 'I love the Irish, because you're one of them.'"

Charles cringed. "Well, Margaret, I am not most people, thank heavens for that. And when did you speak with Donna?"

He hadn't thought of his "wife" in a very long time, but the memory of their talk in his tent warmed him slightly.

"Charles, I was her maid of honor at your unwedding, if you'll recall. We did have a little chat. Then again, you were pretty...happy at that ceremony, too, so you might've forgotten."

"Oh, I remember that."

"You with that bow tie around your neck. Sexy."

Charles wasn't necessarily surprised by her remark--she'd flirted with him before, after all--but it certainly went to his heart more deeply than it might have previously, with the weight of their kiss still on his mind, much like the feel of her warm lips against his. He decided to play along.

"It's just as well that Donna and I unmarried that night, because I was quite taken, I must admit, with the maid of honor."

"Were you?"

"Emphatically. Granted, she's agonizingly obstinate, which can make casual conversation, sometimes, an arduous task--"

She bumped into him with significant force, causing him to stumble. But the smirk on her face reassured him.

"But there's a lilt in her voice when she's happy, and when she smiles, her eyes remind me of the way streetlights look in snow; a little mysterious, but bright, and the only beautiful, happy thing in an expanse of banality."

She could only smile at him, wrapping an arm around his and resting her head against his shoulder for a few seconds as they walked.

"Do you think someone will come for us soon?" she wondered.

"We were due back two hours ago. I'd say it's a fair bet someone will be concerned that we've been incommunicado for so long."

She was shivering a bit more violently now and he worried that she might be on the brink of mild hypothermia. There was only one solution, for now, and it was one he didn't hesitate to bring to fruition. Deliberately halting their movements, he unzipped his coat, handing it to her. Despite her look of confusion, she obliged. He pulled his thick, navy blue sweater over his head and immediately, Margaret reacted.

"No, Charles, I know what you're doing and you can stop right now."

"Margaret, this is non-negotiable. I'm barely shivering, I've got two heavy sweaters and a coat. You've got one thin sweater and one thin coat. I will not stand by and watch as you succumb to hypothermia. We're going to stop the progression in its tracks."

He noticed the way the coat shook as she held it, and felt further vindicated by his decision. When she still looked like she was going to refuse him, he opted for a different tactic.

"Margaret," he put his hands on her forearms, stroking up and down gently, "I am worried about how cold you are right now. I don't know how long we will be out in this weather. I care about you. Very much. Let me do this."

His soft tone, soothing touch, and palpable concern were enough to convince her. She handed him his coat and simulatenously took the sweater, putting in over her coat.

"Thank you, Charles."

He reached out to tuck a piece of hair behind her ear and smiled.

TBC...