notes: Thanks for the feedback! I spent a great deal of time researching the medical implications involved in the upcoming chapters, but I still claim to be far, far from an expert, so I've taken the path of least resistance and decided to provide only the basic, important details, leaving the specificities to be casualties of ambiguity. That way, I avoid sounding like an idiot and detracting from the overall story. Enjoy!


Certain events caused an immediate disconnect in thought processes, such that even the most recent memories became instantly blurred. Strangely, it happened, that while she remembered waking up with her head still on Charles's chest, she couldn't remember anything after that, until the jeep--like water in the desert--came upon them in the early morning, just as they were preparing for another long trek. To get home. To the 4077th. But there was the jeep...and she couldn't remember...

She wanted to.

Usually, she had a sharp memory; could retain information, even minute details, in some instances, for long periods of time. In fact, that was how she'd managed to buy the surprise gift for Charles. He must have thought she'd instantly forget, what with her rushing off, in vain, to Tokyo for her birthday. But she'd remembered that he'd wanted the...Schnabel recording of...

"Beethoven," she heard herself say.

Suddenly, she was aware that both she and Charles were in the jeep, someone with dark hair was driving, and Charles was leaning over her. He hadn't buttoned his coat, though. When had they gotten into the jeep?

"What's she saying?" the dark-haired man yelled to Charles. "She was fine twenty minutes ago, she was making perfect sense."

Charles whipped his head around to yell at the man. "Klinger! Put the pedal on the ground, hold the wheel with both hands, and get us there now!"

Klinger! Why had she forgotten he was driving? A look of confusion overtook her features and Charles must've noticed, but it didn't seem to bother him, as he just hunched over her again. What was he doing, anyway? Her hands were laying on her pants, so she moved her left hand upward, to where Charles's hands were, feeling a sticky, moist sensation. It was oozing. Now she remembered. She'd been shot. And she was dizzy, sweating, her skin clammy. He had taken off her sweater and unzipped the coat. Keep the clothing loose. No wonder he sounded so urgent and worried. Shock. But her thoughts were jumbled, lucidity tentative. It was better to think of other memories right now, anyway. Charles was handling everything.

An image of her mother suddenly overtook her periphery; her long hair, resting on her shoulders; her sweet smile, forever void of condemnation or scorn. Mother was the safe place, the one who read and read, and inserted inflections into her voice for different characters and situations. They loved poetry together, mythical poetry. An old poem came back now, so palpable she could almost feel her mother's lips near her ear, giggling at the big words and having to explain Byzantium to her. And therefore...

"I have sailed the seas," she heard herself say again. She hadn't meant to say that out loud. And it was slightly harder to breathe now. Irregular and shallow.

"I know, sweetheart," his voice dipped, and he applied a minute amount of additional pressure to the wound.

Klinger couldn't hear her whisper over the noise caused by the jeep speeding over dirt, but the one glance he'd hazarded back towards her made him take Charles's urgency to heart. She was as pale as any of the wounded they'd operated on, and the idea that the seemingly infallible Major Houlihan could be rendered so vulnerable, frankly unnerved Klinger.

Judging by Charles's entire progression of behavior, it more than unnerved him.

Margaret, however, only hoped the recording had arrived by now. It was supposed to arrive three days ago, but she had been told to anticipate a day or two delay, despite the expedited shipping speed. She had, however, planned a more glamorous way to give it to him. Now, it seemed, he would happen upon it while she was...detained. The decision to buy it made her even more curious about the labyrinthine world of classical music, so adored by Charles. Still an amateur, she recalled, on most occasions, loving Mozart whenever he was played. Yes, she liked him quite a lot. Perhaps she'd enjoy Beethoven as well.

"I like Mozart," she managed.

The jeep halted violently and she was inches away from oblivion. Charles's hands hadn't moved from their spot on her wound, but as she saw Klinger climb out of the jeep and Hawkeye, BJ, and Colonel Potter rush towards it, she finally felt his hands leave their stasis and cradle her as he deposited her gently on a litter. As her eyes slid shut and the voices around her were nothing more than a din, she felt a kiss on her hand and a whisper at her ear.

So Charles would be there...

Handling everything.


Briefly, before she'd been anesthetized, she'd heard disjointed whispers. Hypovolemic shock. Fluids. It's the spleen, not ruptured, thank God. It's not an option.

But then the voices had quickly faded.

To be replaced with...memories. Her mother, again. Wearing a long dress to her ankles, that danced with California winds as she hung laundry on the line to dry. When Margaret was very young, she'd sit on the grass, beneath the sheets, loving the feel of the fabric as it patted her cheek. Then she would whistle through the holes left by the void of missing front teeth. She would ask her mother about Lucy Sullivan, the girl with the tricycle, and why Lucy had to light candles at her church and they didn't.

There was talk of saints and necklaces and special prayers and for a few minutes, on that hot summer day, she wished she could light a candle and pray to St. Michael, the only saint her mother knew of by name. But, kindly, her mother denied her request.

The rest of the memory was invaded by voices, again.

"Everyone reacts to anesthesia differently."

"But she should be making some movement by now."

"Pierce, you keep throwing gasoline on the fire and I'm going to personally escort you out of here. Now, if you want to be here, stop putting dark clouds in front of everyone else's sun," Potter boomed.

Where was Charles?

"Colonel Potter, I must admit, I'm a tad anxious myself."

There he was.

She could feel herself being pulled under again. It was too much right now. She wanted to wake up, to relieve them all of their worry, even if for a brief moment. But it would have to come later.

"Then why don't the two of you mosey on down to..."

Lucy Sullivan, she remembered, was quite pious. Not suffocatingly so. It was subtle, and beautiful in that. When they were five, they saw a dead bird on the sidewalk. Margaret stared at it, sad that such a lovely thing had to go. But Lucy bent over it, saying a prayer that ended with, "now and at the hour of our death," and it was burned into Margaret's head, forever, because death would make frequent visits throughout her life. She never had the courage to pray with it, for her soul. Just as she could never light a candle.

When next she became aware of the present, she could feel a pressure around her left hand, fingers tightly laced through hers. And there was an added pressure on that hand; possibly...someone's cheek. Someone had fallen asleep at her bedside. Sleep. She imagined she must've fallen asleep again for quite a while. She was doubtful that they would've given her a lot of pain medication until she'd come out of the anesthetic. Which she hadn't, officially, yet.

Her eyes were still so heavy. And it was easy to go back to summer days in California.

Someone else held her right hand, squeezing it at that moment.

"I should read you The Last of the Mohicans. It's all about me, of course. Hawkeye. The hero."

Oh, Hawkeye.

"Not that this is a bad book. Well, actually, it must be. It put Charles to sleep."

"Perhaps it was the ordeal, and the added worry," a softer voice added.

"I know, Father, I'm just--"

He put her hand down, rustling through the book he held. He cleared his throat.

"Francie and Neeley put all their junk into a burlap bag and each grabbed an end and dragged it along the street; up Manhattan Avenue, past Maujer, Ten Eyck, Stagg to Scholes Street. Beautiful names for ugly streets."

"What book is that?"

"A Tree Grows in Brooklyn."

Margaret remembered receiving it a month ago. She'd told Charles about it, yet she hadn't had the chance to begin reading it. Apparently, he'd started reading it to her. She wished she could've heard the beginning.

"Come on, Margaret. You're rubbing off on Charles, even."

At the mention of his name, Charles started, sitting up and immediately glancing at Margaret. His face fell as soon as he was aware that she remained unconscious.

"Charles, I'm worried."

Charles nodded, unbeknowst to Margaret. Yet she could feel him squeeze her hand.

"Don't despair. I've put in an excess of good words for the Major here to my higher-up. She's in good hands."

"Yeah, well, I'd feel better if her hands would squeeze back," Hawkeye mumbled.

Charles was suspiciously quiet, but he had begun stroking his fingers over her palm.

"I'll...keep praying," Father Mulcahy said softly.

She thought again of the talk of saints and candles. And the way she brought her legs to her chest at her mother's refusal of her request. She rocked in the grass, her chin on her knees. Then looked up at her mother, her voice forlorn as she asked--

"Why can't I light a candle?" she was, again, aware of herself saying faintly, out loud.

Instantly, she could hear a shriek of delight from Hawkeye, who launched himself out of his chair, bending over to her hug very gently.

"Why can't you light a candle? Margaret, you could roast marshmallows right now, for all we care!"

Father Mulcahy patted her shoulder and Hawkeye moved to the foot of her bed, shouting for Colonel Potter and BJ.

Charles, meanwhile, had pulled her hand closer to him, against his heart, bending near to her, never ceasing the stroking of her palm. She turned her head fully, to look at him, certain she hadn't seen a smile that big on his face for at least a week. When she'd kissed him, in fact. The bed dipped down as Colonel Potter seated himself at her right side, patting her forearm.

"We're mighty glad to see you awake, Margaret. You lost a lot of blood and the anesthesia...well, let's just say we were all joining the padre in prayer. Every hour."

"How do you feel, Margaret?" BJ asked from his position at the foot of her bed, hunched over the rail.

With each waking minute, the dull ache on her left upper side grew with intensity. She wondered vaguely if, and how much, damage had been done to her ribs. Realizing she hadn't yet answered the question, she moved her right arm, resting it on her pelvis, and said, "Sore. Tired."

"Thank God there was a lull in the fighting. We're pretty well empty here right now. Best we can figure is a scout spotted the jeep, fired at it."

She still didn't remember the actual event of it, only being aware of Charles hunched over her, pressing against her ribs.

"Very sore. Very tired," she amended, her voice dipping, feeling and belying the increasing pain.

Hawkeye, who'd been sitting by her feet, nodded and stood, presumably to get pain medicine. Colonel Potter also stood, hands on his hips. Klinger was there, too, just like he'd been in the jeep. She had no idea why, but it was vaguely reassuring.

"Good driving," she said, looking at him.

Charles, whose gaze had been entirely focused on Margaret, now looked towards Klinger as well, a soft smile of gratitude overtaking his features.

"Yes, Max, I must commend you on an excellent bit of driving, indeed. Quite rough terrain."

No one wanted to say just why it was so important that he'd driven with rarely seen expedition, maneuvering adeptly, but they knew. She was very, very close to bleeding to death; a spleen injury notorious for extensive loss of blood. Maybe at some point, she thought, she'd want to know the medical aspects to her life-saving surgery, but the pain and fatigue were overpowering that curiosity.

She was beginning to feel a bit invaded, with everyone hovering over her. She hoped they would all leave once the pain medicine had been administered. Well, except for Charles. She wasn't sure what she'd dream about, but she was anxious, given the dreams plaguing her unconscious for the last three days. It would be nice to awake--from any possible nightmares--with his strong hand still cradling hers. But as she turned her head to look at him, and he met her gaze, she saw, with clarity, just how haggard he was. Maybe it would be best if he got some sleep. She had no idea how long she'd been out--no one had said--but her unconsciousness, coupled with the wound itself, had severely drained him. Like the time--the time when he'd run off to Battalion Aide; depleted, emotionally taxed. Ask him about it, she reminded herself. Maybe he'd talk. After all, she wanted to know why he looked, right now, as he did then. And acting just as reserved, minus the physical connection due to his continued holding of her hand.

Hawkeye returned with a syringe, such a sweet look on his face. They'd grown close as friends; she wasn't surprised to see the same fatigue and worry--slightly less than that of Charles, but present nonetheless--in his eyes. He stood behind Charles's shoulder, then took a seat on that side of the bed. She turned her gaze back to Charles, thinking of being in the jeep, how cold it was. And how he hadn't buttoned up his coat. She had wanted to chide him for it then, but couldn't.

"Why didn't you...button your coat?"

Charles looked confused at first, then seemed to understand.

"In the jeep, you mean?" When she nodded, he smiled, stroking his fingers over hers.

"Margaret, you were...bleeding, badly. Nothing else could have been of more importance to me, at that moment, than your well-being," he said, his voice husky.

For a second, she wondered how that sounded to everyone else, but no one reacted outwardly, and it didn't matter to her at the moment anyway. She turned her head further left, into her pillow. Hawkeye leant forward, injecting the pain medication into her arm.

She didn't move, but, knowing Klinger was still there, said as loudly as she could manage, "Klinger, give Charles...recording."

She knew he would understand her, satisfied as she heard him say, "Sure, Major."

Fighting to keep her eyes open a second longer, and losing, she cast one last glance at Charles before allowing her lids to droop, as they so insisted. Hawkeye bent over to kiss her cheek and before she was fully under, she squeezed Charles's hand.


Charles tucked a strand of hair behind her hair and gently set her hand down by her side. He sighed, steepling his fingers as he rested his elbows on his knees. He was content, he would not admit out loud, to simply watch her chest rise and fall steadily. No more irregular breaths or rapid heartbeat. Just...serenity. He wouldn't relax, completely, he knew, until she was up and walking on her own, standing next to him in OR, not laying beneath his scalpel.

Hawkeye had taken a position across from him, BJ seated next to him.

"Fellas, she's going to be pretty well out of it for the next two days, at least. It wouldn't hurt any of us to get some rest while she's doing the same. Then we'll on be on par when she starts coming around completely," Colonel Potter said softly, standing at the foot of the bed.

"Colonel, she's been having...bad dreams lately. With her weakened state, I don't want the anxiety of nightmares agitating her condition. If someone is here with her, to soothe her--"

"Winchester, that medicine is going to keep her pretty well under for a few hours. You've been sitting here longer than anyone else and your eyes are at half-mast. Pretty soon, you'll be so tired you won't even be able to coordinate your hands. Now, get up, take a nap, shower, and make yourself presentable. The nurses are here and one of us will be around if she runs into a problem."

He wanted to protest, but doing that would give further power to the romantic feelings brimming beneath the surface. Not something he thought quite appropriate just now, in the present company. He had to admit he was exhausted and it was illogical to think a beleaguered caretaker could dole out significant, or proper attention. So he stood, bending to kiss her temple, and pulled on the coat he'd draped over the chair. When he stepped outside, he paused for a few seconds. He hadn't been out of post-op since they'd brought her in for surgery. The air was still burdened with a chill. As he prepared to walk away, Margaret's groggy voice came back to him and he looked down, noticing the open sprawl of his coat. So he smiled and buttoned it, heading first to see Klinger, who'd retreated back to his office.

"Klinger, might I inquire about the recording Major Houlihan made reference to?" he asked as he came through the door.

"Oh, sure, Major. It came yesterday. She was really excited about getting it. Although, when I asked her why she was giving it to you, she was...her usual, charming self," Klinger said, a hint of affection in his voice.

Charles took the package, gently tearing off the wrapping. An instant, overwhelming warmth came over him as he looked at the title. Schnabel's 1932 recording of Beethoven's Emperor Concerto. He dare not speak just yet, for fear his vocal chords would not comply.

"You know, she was so excited about giving it to you herself, I wonder why she wanted me to give it to you now. Maybe it's...in case--"

"Thank you, Max," Charles abruptly cut him off, unwilling to hear the rest of that thought. He tucked the record against his side and exited the building, heading for The Swamp.

Taking the record out, he gently set the needle atop it as he deposited it into his phonograph. He kicked his shoes off and rested against his pillow, crossing his arms over his stomach as the gifted piano player made magic of Beethoven. For a moment, he was absent from the worry and fear of impending grief that had been occupying his thoughts. But it quickly came back, as the notes reminded him of art and the infallibility of earth's beautiful, gentle souls. But no, the fallibility of the most precious things. Margaret. And he shut his eyes as they glistened, taking the needle abruptly off the record as the corner of his mouth trembled. And he wished for the immortality of the woman who drank scotch, adored poetry, sang a song about Molly Malone, loved yoga and Mozart, and, maybe...him.

TBC...