notes: Thanks for the feedback! It's nice to know there are a few of you out there reading it, despite the fact that this is generally an ignored pairing. Again, thanks for reading and enjoy!
When he awoke, he was shrouded in darkness. Initially disoriented, he thought for an instant he was beneath the overgrown bush again, Margaret's head near his left shoulder. But then the creak of a door brought him fully awake, and the delusion was shattered. The familiar feeling of overwhelming worry came upon him again--like waves lapping at a drowning man's head--as he met BJ's gaze.
"Did you sleep for a while, Charles?" he asked as he pulled his coat tightly around his stomach, making his way to the still.
Charles nodded, running a hand over his face.
"Hawkeye's doing rounds," he said, leaning back with a martini glass perched at his lips, eyes closed.
Charles didn't feel like speaking with Hunnicutt, even idle chitchat, so he gathered his robe and towel and headed off for a quick shower. When he returned to the Swamp, BJ was asleep--for which he was grateful--and he quickly got dressed, pulling a brown sweater over his head. As he entered post-op, his eyes went immediately to Margaret. Hawkeye was writing something on a clipboard, standing over a patient who'd been brought in with a laceration to his superficial popliteal vein. One another patient occupied a bed on the far side of the room--a minor case.
He cleared his throat, moving across the room to stand at the end of Margaret's bed, picking up her chart. Even that didn't ease his worry just yet. She wasn't out of the danger zone, not for at least another few days. But so far, the results were satisfying. She'd needed a large quantity of blood, and fluids, to compensate for the shock that had set in. That's when he'd felt most frightened; never having experienced that serious a condition in those dire circumstances, applied to a loved one. She'd been talking to him initially, and he hadn't let the worry overtake him yet. She'd covered his blood-soaked hands with hers, squeezing his fingers and smiling, reassuring him the whole time. How absurd, he thought now. Her, reassuring him. Her optimism had eventually spread a bit, so that finally, finally he was joking and reassuring her; reminding her of the time she'd spoken of his hands with admiration, declaring that she'd want no other hands but his, on her--in the event she needed an operation--and how she'd get that chance now. An easy in and out, he'd joked. Even Klinger had contributed something lighthearted. But then she'd grown quiet, concentrating, and her hands patted his, then went to her side. It was when she'd gotten so quiet, her breathing shallow--and suddenly said Beethoven seemingly from nowhere--that he'd felt a sickness in his stomach.
His hands had been soaked when he'd gotten to OR. She was his responsibility, and yet there he was, stained with her lifeforce, rather than preserving it. He thought of his brother, Timmy, and how, when he fell from the tree, he'd been instantly silent. No whimpers or whispers or nonsensical ramblings, just silence. But Margaret had been speaking right up to moment they put her on the litter. It was a good sign, he'd chanted in his head. A good sign.
"Charles?" Hawkeye suddenly took a seat beside Charles on the empty bed across from Margaret, both men glancing at her sleeping face. Both men feeling intense worry, but from vastly different perspectives.
"How has she been, Pierce?"
"Stable, completely out. I just think of how...loud and constant and--and vivacious she is. It's so strange to see her any other way."
"Vivacious? Pierce, you sound like you're describing a cocktail waitress who has occasion to tap dance for money, and any lascivious men who might happen her way. Vivacious women, Pierce, leave nothing to the imagination."
"Well pardon me, Roget. Care to correct me with your choice of an adjective better suited for our dearest head nurse?"
Charles remained quiet for a moment, enjoying the ease of the banter, but collected his thoughts to say, "Margaret is...ethereal."
Hawkeye twirled a pen between his fingers, then tapped it against the side of the clipboard in his lap.
"Ethereal. Well, fine Charles, I was just gonna go home, mend the fence, and do some redecorating after this shift. Now I've got to study. Probably be an all-nighter, too, killjoy."
Margaret shifted a bit in her sleep and Hawkeye stood to adjust the blanket which had slipped slightly below her shoulders.
"Her vital signs are reassuring," Charles remarked, resting his chin on his crossed hands.
"So far. It's infection I'm worried about now. You had to use that sweater to help with the bleeding, and you were outside, in the dirt, with it. It's--"
"We should refrain from dwelling on uncertainties for now, Pierce."
But uncertainties were all he could, himself, focus on. Still, he preferred not to give voice to them. It somehow...empowered them, making them ever more closer to reality.
"I'm just satisfied with seeing her breathing. And not...bleeding."
"Satisfied? Charles, I'm worried sick, but you're beside yourself."
Charles sighed loudly, tightening his hands together.
"Pierce, do I appear to be irrationally fretful?"
"Well, no, but it's insidious. The entire time you've been at her bedside, when you're not holding her hand, you've had to keep your hands together because they're shaking."
Charles looked annoyed for a moment, but then moved his chin away from the two-handed fist it had been propped upon, spread his fingers apart, and noticed the way they shook. It was very faint, now, but it still there. He'd been aware of it, he just thought it would go unnoticed.
"How did you--"
"I don't just annoy you, Charles, I annoy Dr. Freedman, too. Maybe I missed my calling."
Charles smirked, reminded of the conversation only a night ago with Margaret, when they'd made jokes about Dr. Freedman and psychology.
"Did you see how happy she was when she saw you, holding her hand? You think I don't know there's more going on here than concern for a friend?"
Charles closed his eyes, nodding. He stood up from the empty bed, moving instead to the chair at Margaret's side. He took her hand once again, this time, surrounding it with both of his. The shaking tapered off, and he resumed his earlier pattern of stroking fingers gently over hers.
"Hawkeye, there was so much blood. I've never had to wash so fiercely, for so long, certain it was to be an...infinite reminder of...fragility," he whispered.
Hawkeye stood, patting Charles's shoulder.
"Charles, she's the least fragile person we know. You think the Grim Reaper would wanna stick around long enough to see her temper? He gave it a quick try and turned tail. Besides," he added, voice growing softer and serious, "I beat him in a game of poker a few months back and we made a deal. He doesn't touch the people we love until we're all old and ugly. Uglier, in some cases."
The dream again. Only this time, Charles hadn't fallen off the edge of earth right away. He was clinging to the precipice with both hands, shivering from the chill of a fierce wind, and yelling to her for help. She searched desperately for a rope or stick. Anything, anything. But it seemed to be in vain.
And now a man, a priest this time, came to stand in front of her, blocking her view of Charles. She pushed against him, telling him she needed to get to him, but he just took her wrists gently, telling her he couldn't be saved now, but soon. Then he pulled a cigar out of his pocket, lighting it, puffing languorously on the end to draw out the flame. He produced another one, asking if she'd like to smoke as well, but she refused. She had to get to Charles.
But it was too late. He'd fallen. She, in turn, fell to her knees on the cold ground, a sudden rain falling upon her. And so everything, now, was falling. Yet the flame from the priest's cigar remained lit and she thought maybe it was the only thing left to do. At least she would have a bit of light. She asked for the cigar and he complied, smiling.
"You're not strong enough yet. You can help him, soon. The rain belongs to you."
Charles, meanwhile, observed her with interest as she began to moan, presumably beginning to come out from under the fog of medication. He was afraid another bothersome dream might be disturbing her, but he was helpless at the moment. All he could do was hold her hand, and he did, kissing the palm of it.
"I have to..." she whispered.
He leaned forward, keeping her hand close to his mouth as he whispered reassurances across the joints of her fingers.
"Have..."
Her eyes slowly opened, blinking to adjust to the light. She immediately focused on him, but there was a lingering disorientation.
"To save him..."
His lips brushed her fingers again.
"Shh, sweetheart, it's all right. Who do you have to save?"
"Him," she persisted, trying to sit up.
Charles immediately dropped her hand, gently putting pressure on both her shoulders to prevent her from sitting up and aggravating her still very vulnerable injury.
"You," she finally said, smiling at him.
He sat down, eased by her sudden coherence, pulling the chair closer to her so they could talk.
"Me? The dream again?"
"Different this time. Just us. You fell," her voice was gaining strength with each word, losing its drowsiness, and quickly catching up to her mind.
"And you weren't chastised by Winston Churchill this time?"
She shook her head. "A priest. With a cigar. He grabbed my wrists."
"And I gallantly defended your honor?"
"No, you were...holding onto some rocks. He wouldn't let me get to you. You fell."
"Margaret, I would advise you to cease worrying about the possibility of my demise in such a manner. Or your inability to prevent such an illogicality."
She turned her head to the side, blinking slowly.
"Then it started to rain," she murmured.
The pain was coming back, with pronounced strength. She knew by now a rib or two had broken, could feel it. The best thing was as little movement as possible. It would be hard to sleep that way, though. She'd just woken up, and wanted to speak with Charles longer, but it was hard to concentrate, and she was tired anyway. The journey into sleep-filled bliss would be aided by medicine. Charles sensed her discomfort, laying a hand on her arm.
"Margaret, are you in a great deal of pain?"
She merely nodded.
"You must tell us these things. Now is not the time for reticence. You need your rest, and the pain will only hinder it."
Hawkeye came over with a syringe at Charles's indication, sticking her gently, and running a hand along the side of her head.
"Charles," she started, absently, as soon as Hawkeye had left.
"Yes?"
"Is my book nearby?"
He looked around, spotting it on one of the empty beds. So he picked it up, flipping to the page Hawkeye had earmarked, and resumed his seat beside her. Margaret turned her head over to look at him, placing a hand on his wrist to halt movement.
"Can you...start at the beginning again?"
"Certainly."
He crossed one leg over the other, flipping back to the beginning, and clearing his throat for an added amusing effect.
"Serene was a word you could put to Brooklyn, New York. Especially in the summer of 1912. Somber, as a word, was better. But it did not apply to Williamsburg, Brooklyn. Prairie was lovely and Shenandoah had a beautiful sound, but you couldn't fit those words into Brooklyn. Serene was the only word for it; especially on a Saturday afternoon in summer."
He stroked a hand down her cheek, smiling as her deep breathing indicated she'd relaxed into much-needed sleep. With nothing else to do, he idly flipped through the pages of the book. He'd never read it, and never intended to, but sometimes impossibilities had a way of coming to fruition, disturbing certainties, and the people who lived by them.
"You know, I am a doctor, Charles, I don't know if you'd noticed. It's hard to tell, sometimes, I guess, because the white jacket makes me look like a professional, but then my cheeky, adorable grin gives away my insanity. But really, everything's fine right now. We've got two other patients. If anything happens, she's going to have my immediate attention."
Charles stopped his motion, setting the book on his thigh.
"No doubt, maestro, but I would prefer to ensure her well-being firsthand. This is a critical timeframe and it will slightly ease my worry to be near her myself."
"Charles--"
"Need I remind you, Pierce, that she is my patient?" He immediately regretted it, but it had come forth of its own volition, the product of a frenzied mind giving sole importance to the sleeping woman before him, not the inane and childish argument between the two surgeons.
"Your patient? Charles, we all love her, we all operated on her. We were--are all worried out of our minds. You haven't got--"
"Pierce, I should--"
Colonel Potter, having come in and heard the tail end of their discussion escalating, sidled between them. When he spoke, his voice was low, but deliberate.
"Can it, you two. We don't need you neanderthals disturbing Margaret's rest. I'd think out of anyone, you'd both agree that's a priority."
They nodded, with Charles adding, "Of course, Colonel. I was just about to apologize to Pierce. I'm...not quite myself right now."
Potter looked sympathetic. "Understood, Winchester."
"Charles, I'm sorry, too. I just know you couldn't have slept well last night, then this morning...with everything. It's been a long day. It will be a long few days. We should all get rest at every opportunity."
"Thank you, Pierce, for your concern, though I assure you that I am still capable of recognizing my own limits. I would like to reciprocate and apologize to you as well."
"All right, if you two yahoos are ready to focus and get your mind back where it belongs right now, I'd like to know how our girl here is doing."
Charles crossed his arms over his chest as Hawkeye picked up Margaret's chart, double-checking the vital signs.
"So far, so good, Colonel. She woke up a little while ago, she was in a lot of pain and the previous dose had long since worn off, so I gave her another. Charles had to weasel it out of her, though, that she even needed the medicine."
Colonel Potter nodded, hands together in a fist behind his back.
"That girl's got a will stronger than the outer wall of Alcatraz."
"Not to worry, Colonel, she shall find any plans to hide important details like that again, quickly foiled."
"Charles is right, Colonel. He's got her under intense scrutiny, nothing will get past him. In the meantime, he's been reading her some love poetry, romantic sonnets and the like," Hawkeye teased.
Charles shot him a glare.
"Look, I'm headed to bed fellas, and if anything should develop, come and get me. In the meantime, behave and uh, get some rest, Winchester, all right?" Colonel Potter turned to leave, Hawkeye trailing behind him.
The two watched as Charles stood, bending down to kiss Margaret's forehead.
"That boy's carrying a torch for her."
"Oh, tish-tosh, Colonel, he's merely showing concern for his patient. Granted, he adds a whole new meaning to the word attentive. And as I've also learned tonight, he could give you another word for attentive."
Charles decided to heed the advice of his colleagues, settling on a compromise as he laid his head on the empty cot beside Margaret, turning on his side to face her, and shutting his eyes for what he knew would be a restless night's sleep.
TBC...
