notes: I'm very honored that some of you have been typically H/M 'shippers, but found my story enjoyable nonetheless. Thank you so much for the feedback! I wanted to make mention that, given normal circumstances, they probably would've started her on antiobiotics as a preventive cautionary measure to stave off any developing infection, especially given the conditions surrounding her when she was shot. But, stretch your imagination a bit, for the sake of a little added angst. So, I added that they were short on penicillin and would only use it if absolutely necessary, i.e. when she's actually starting to show signs of an infection. Also, I fleshed out the details of the actual shooting a bit more, in case I was a bit too oblique in previous chapters.


The coffee, like everything else in the mess tent, was objectionable. But caffeinated, and--if he waxed philosophical--essentially, liquid melancholia. Which was quite analogous to his present state of mind. He'd managed to rest for about four hours and once again, he was reminded of how drastically things had been altered, by one single event. It's not as though his bed in the Swamp was all that comfortable, but he would've never imagined an occurrence in which he would voluntarily succumb to sleep on the even more drastically inferior beds of post-op. When the axis of normalcy was disturbed, he was learning, everything else shifted in spite of it. Or because of it. Or even, in some instances, willingly changed.

At that moment, he was joined by Father Mulcahy and Hawkeye, whose white coat was still on, beneath his warmer green coat.

"Good Morning, Major Winchester," Mulcahy said, immediately trying to inject an optimism which was already severely lacking.

Charles nodded politely, sipping his coffee slowly.

"And how is Major Houlihan?" Mulcahy asked of Hawkeye.

"Stable," he replied, repeating what he'd said to Charles only a few hours ago. He stabbed his food violently with the fork. "You know, I don't like eating this food on a good day. I'm even less inclined to eat it today. No appetite."

"Worry, Pierce, has a way of dulling other needs," Charles remarked, wrapping his hands fully around the coffee mug, his own stomach indifferent to the thought of food.

"BJ's doing rounds. It figures this would happen while we've got a shortage of penicillin. I'd feel more relaxed if we could just start her on a regimen as a precautionary measure, but we can't risk using it up if it's not necessary."

Charles looked even more troubled by that hinderance.

"Has she stirred since I left?"

"No, she's resting very well. Nice to see."

"It's heartbreaking to think how close it was. Margaret's such a gentle soul," Mulcahy offered, feeling the sentiment was a bit hollow.

Hawkeye rested his left cheek in his hand, watching as Charles bowed his head and appeared to be in deep thought.

"Charles, I know it's still sensitive, but what exactly happened? Colonel Potter was a little vague with Margaret yesterday, explaining it."

He wanted to refuse a rehash of the events, but he couldn't think of a good reason--other than preserving his emotinal sanity--not to tell them. It had all happened so fast, so unexpectedly, that the event itself would naturally elicit curiosity.

"We were...walking," he started, sighing. "As a matter of fact, she was fussing over me initially, as I'd slightly injured my ankle the previous night. Very minor. I was only reminded of it, in fact, when she inquired about it as we walked. Quite insistent, really. It was amusing. We must have traveled an hour or so when, quite fortunately, Klinger arrived, saying Colonel Potter had been worried about our absence and sent him off to find us at first light. It seemed so strangely fortuitous."

"The calm before the storm."

"Quite. Such a precise delineation between normalcy and chaos. I threw our bags into the seat and Margaret was...I can't remember where she was standing, but she was looking behind us for just a moment. Then...a shot."

He didn't want to elaborate. But in his head, he felt the moment, vividly, all over again. How the shot had sounded, how, looking back, he could almost feel the way it interrupted the air, intent on inducing as much pain--physically and emotionally--as possible. She had stumbled a bit against him and he'd grabbed her around the shoulders, pulling her to the ground, unaware that the damage had been wrought already. Fearful that more shots would follow, he climbed into the jeep quickly, pulling her with him, and Klinger immediately sped off. He'd never even seen where the shot had come from. In retrospect, it wasn't important. What did matter, however, was how he'd slumped against the seat, certain they'd narrowly escaped severe injury, and looked over to her, expecting to see a look of equally exuberant relief.

Yet he hadn't. Instead, when he looked at her, he saw a blossoming crimson stain, spread across the sweater he'd given her. She'd pressed her left hand to the wound, shifting so she could assess it. She was cringing, but quickly pulled off her sweater, shoving it against her side. Why had he sat there so long, just staring at her, frozen? He knew, now. It wasn't real until he'd at last shifted onto his knees, covered her hands with his, and felt the blood, her blood, between his fingers.

"Thank God it only nicked the spleen. If it had ruptured..."

"Thank God, indeed," Mulcahy finished.

"Charles, you know you did everything you could," Hawkeye added, hoping

"I realize that, though hindsight is 20/20."

"Look, why don't you go back to the Swamp and blast Rachmann?"

Charles cringed, looking at Hawkeye through squinted eyes.

"Rachmaninoff?"

"Him, too. You've got total amnesty; listen to it as long as you want, as loud as you want it."

Charles looked minutely touched. "Thank you, Pierce."

Hawkeye pulled his knit cap further down on his head, standing up with his tray in his right hand.

"Sure. Maybe I'll even sing along," he winked.

Charles crossed his arms, cringing again. "I am ever wearied by the uncouthness pervading this camp," he mumbled.


But he didn't play Rachmaninoff. Today--the early skies leaden with grey chill--he found refuge, and commiseration, in the mournful, weary notes of Mahler's Fifth Symphony. The fourth movement, specifically, with its adagietto pace likening its voice to an elegy, or a remembrance.

And memories, after all (if you went back far enough), were tinged with the melancholy of life's refrains, in the minor key.

A few hours had passed and BJ walked in, shutting the door quickly as a gust of cold air followed behind him. He looked to Charles, who was on his back with his hands folded over his stomach, still listening to Mahler quietly. Hawkeye lay on his back, seemingly asleep.

"I just gave her a dose of pain medicine, so she'll be out for a while," BJ said, by way of a greeting.

"How's she doing, Beej?" Hawkeye mumbled over the edge of his pillow, eyes still shut.

"Good," he replied, sitting near the still, propping his feet up. "Talking, pleasant. Groggy, but coherent. She asked about you Charles."

BJ smirked over the rim of his glass, closing his eyes as he leant his head back, letting the gin take effect. Charles, meanwhile, had sat up, pulling his shoes on, but BJ's remark halted him.

"Me?"

"She was still groggy, but yeah. Thought you were hurt or something. I assured her you were the same--dented head, but still healthy. And as pleasant as ever."

Charles smirked sarcastically, unamused.

It was then that an announcement of, "Incoming wounded!" interrupted further good-natured ribbing. Quickly tying his shoes, Charles pulled on his jacket, turned off his phonograph, and headed for duty, mind now blessedly distracted from its predominant worry.


"Not too bad. Worst one was that kid with the leg wound. Miracle they were able to clamp the femoral artery in time and get him here so fast. That boy's gonna keep his leg. Good work, Winchester," Colonel Potter said as he pulled his surgical cap off.

"Yeah, Charles, that was impressive. You can commence gloating now," Hawkeye shot at him as he took a seat by Charles on the bench.

Charles smiled softly, resting his hands on his thighs.

"Thank you, gentleman, but I can take this victory--as deserving of praise as it is--silently today."

Hawkeye shared an intrigued look with BJ, who simply shrugged.

"And now if you'll excuse me, I need to freshen up. I'm due for post-op duty in an hour."


It was a fairly intimate scene to awaken to, but she enjoyed it nonetheless. Charles had pulled the top of her long-sleeved standard issue post-op garb up to just beneath her breast, examining her wound with scrutiny. He pressed on the area gently and this fully roused her, as the pressure caused an added level of pain. When she called out softly, he stopped what he was doing and covered her back up, smiling gently.

"Nice to see you awake, Major."

Still feeling a dull hangover effect from the medicine, she simply smiled at him, by way of initial acknowledgment.

"Did that hurt more than usual, when I pressed on it?"

She nodded. He drew the blankets around her shoulders, shifting his position on the bed so they were touching, faintly. It was nice, she admitted silently, to feel him near her. The last few times she'd woken up, he'd only been as close as the chair next to the bed.

"Infection?" she finally spoke.

"No drainage or flushing, or even swelling yet. We would've started you on pencillin as a preemptive precaution, from the outset, but the next shipment was delayed and we're short, so--"

"Only use it when necessary. I understand, Charles."

"It certainly doesn't help that one of the soldiers earlier today needed an immediate regimen for an already infected wound. Our last regimen."

"When's the next shipment due in?"

"Tomorrow morning."

"I'll be fine until then," she shivered, feeling a bit of a chill. It seemed to have gotten even colder in Korea, while she'd been essentially detained in post-op.

She smiled again, closing her eyes briefly as Charles's left hand came up to stroke her hair from her brow, repeating the gesture a few times before trailing the backs of his fingers down her cheek.

"Margaret, that Schnabel record you purchased for me was one of the most thoughtful gifts I have ever had the pleasure, the honor, of being endowed with. I was moved to silence. I thank you with deepest sincerity," his voice lowered as he said the last part.

"Charles Emerson Winchester the Third, rendered speechless. By my gesture. Well, I must be something special."

"Unequivocally," his voice was brimming with intensity.

Another chill ran through her, and Charles noticed it now. She moved her arms up to her chest, intending to grab the top of the blanket and pull it tightly to her neck, but the movement was painful. Up until then, she'd only moved her arms or hands minutely; this broad shift--from having her arms at her side to suddenly bringing them completely upwards--wasn't quite what she was ready for, yet. At her wince, Charles gently grasped both her wrists, staying her arms at her side, and once again adjusted the blanket for her.

"I'll bring you another blanket. I also need to change your dressing and tape your ribs."

"Charles, one of the nurses can do that," she spoke, confused.

"Of course they can, Major, but I'd prefer to do it. I'm quite taken with the patient and, I'm ashamed to admit, it's a rather obvious way to be as near to her as possible."

As he walked away to get what he needed, Margaret carefully moved her hands, folding them across her stomach. That particular movement didn't hurt much at all. It was simply that the added injury of a few broken ribs made it imperative that certain types of movement be cautious and restrained for a few days. Settled, her thoughts returned to Charles. Certainly, they had been flirting the other night when the jeep broke down. And at all points in between, since Charles had been here; her steady praises of him, her admission that a picnic sounded sexy when he spoke of it in Italian; the way they so often sat next to each other in the Mess tent, trading little touches on each other's arms or hands. But perhaps like many things, love, too, needed an impetus to bring it to a satisfying culmination.

Sleeping as much as she had been, she thought she should cough as much as she could manage right now, to prevent any possible pneumonia from setting in. Despite the discomfort it would induce, it was the wise thing to do, with her injured ribs. Charles came back, blanket folded over his arm.

"I was just going to suggest you work on moving any fluid that might possibly be collecting in your lungs, around. Your actions preempted my advice."

She moved her arms so he could once again lift her long-sleeved shirt enough to clean the wound and dress it. It wasn't as uncomfortable to move now as it had been, though the pain was still very palpable from the wound itself.

"Charles, you know, that's women's work," she teased.

"True, Margaret, but the nurse most adept at this particular type of women's work is currently in need of care."

He gently cleaned the wound, pressing at the skin around it, checking for any signs of infection. As he taped her side tightly enough to keep the ribs from moving too much (but without hindering breathing), she tugged on his hand, pulling it gently to her uninjured stomach.

"And do you intend to keep caring me for, Major?" she asked softly, equally hopeful and apprehensive about the answer.

"Earnestly," his voice husky as he stroked her hair again.

"You might want to rethink that, Charles, I seem to have bad luck in love. It follows me around. It destroys even the good things, the things that can't go wrong."

"Margaret, luck does not trouble itself with affairs of the heart. And if it did, you would be unburdened from any perceived bad luck, as I would happily share my fortune with you," he said with confidence, tucking the second blanket around her shoulders.

It was an admission which had been steadily building and which, finally come to fruition, was perfectly suited as a pleasant and overwhelming counteraction; its propitious, assuring warmth a welcome contrast to the continued chill pervading their surroundings. And love, like warmth, could always be found.

TBC...