notes: Thanks again so very much for the feedback. Also, typically, a wound infection does not develop until after the first 48 hours, but it worked better my way. I seem to have an affection for using poetry in my works, and I think I've got Charles and Margaret to blame for that. But, oh well. The verses at the end come from an Edna St. Vincent Millay poem entitled "Renascence"
Enjoy!
"Charles, I heard you were quite impressive in O.R. today," she started, taking an abrupt divergence from the seriousness of their previous exchange.
"And I'm merely subpar on all other occasions?"
She slapped his hand. "You know what I mean."
"Major," he smiled, a teasing lilt lacing his voice, "I had assumed you were far above idle gossip."
"Major," she countered back, "I overhead Kellye and a few of the other nurses. Can I help it if I have good hearing, and others around here just happen to pass the time by discussing the goings-on in surgery?"
"I certainly can't bemoan you that."
"Besides, on the occasions I've been awake for any length of time, it gets pretty boring around here."
"Shall I read to you some more?"
"You spend anymore time with me, Dr. Winchester, and the other patients might start to suspect you have a favorite," she bantered.
"Ah, but I do. Besides, they're all resting. Like you should be."
"Charles, I'm lying on the bed, I've been lying on the bed. I don't need to sleep right now. I'm stiff."
As she said it, she attempted to shift back and upwards, so she would be more upright. Immediately, the pretense of light humour vacated, replaced with admonishment as Charles moved closer to her, putting his hands on her shoulders and halting her movement.
"Margaret, let me help you, please. I don't want you to exacerbate the wound. You're still very vulnerable, you were only...hurt yesterday," he said the last part so low she had to strain to hear him.
His right arm went behind her shoulders and his left hand went around her hip, helping her to adjust slightly so she was a bit more elevated. He pulled the blankets up further, again, to accomodate the new position. All the while, he was avoiding her gaze. Something she, naturally, noticed straight away. Personally, she still couldn't recall every detail of the shooting, but bits and pieces were coming back, like branches poking out through a fog. She remembered what the shot sounded like, and how Charles had pulled her to the ground. The next thing she remembered was the feel of something oozing from her side. She'd been so cold then, so very cold, and had thought the blood would be cold, too, when she touched it, despite the near-constant feel of its warmth. She'd been wrong, as she knew should would be. The line between death and life blurred when you suddenly had the chance to feel it, though, and so in that interlude, certainties were given a second thought, that they might be, somehow, false. The blood was warm. And it frightened, bothered her that she could still feel that fear, and somehow, knowing that Charles might still feel it as well, made it bearable. So she had to know, had to ask him.
"Charles, were you...were you scared?"
It was so personal that she bowed her head when the question left her lips, unwilling to meet the look which might've passed over Charles's face at the question. If he had been, and still might be, it was possibly inappropriate and even inconsiderate to dredge up the feelings. He bowed his head, too, holding her hands tightly in both of his, with more pressure than he'd ever used before.
"Margaret, I have never felt, with such ardor, the fear which so completely consumed me at the moment I became aware of how unfairly mortal you were. I have always...found comfort in logic but, I suddenly found myself betrayed by it. And that fear which so enveloped me then, remains frustratingly palpable now."
Conceiving of no way to counter that, she simply stated, "I'm just glad it wasn't you in my place."
He brushed a soft kiss against her brow.
"If you only knew how frequently I've wished it was."
He was looking at her with great depth in his eyes, but she was pleased to see that a bit of worry seemed to have fled; most likely due to their conversation, both the intensity and duration of it. Indeed, up to this point, she'd not been able to carry on any lengthy, or serious discussion. He stood now, going to the foot of her bed and picking up her chart, making a few notes.
"Just about due for another I.V."
"Charles. Later tonight, will you...read to me some more?"
"Certainly," he replied, tucking his pen into the pocket of his coat. "What shall I regale you with?"
"Surprise me."
He had surprised her, with Robert Browning (he didn't like either of the Brownings, but he could tolerate Robert), and she'd fallen asleep pleasantly, eased by the melodious hum of his voice close to her ear, teasing errant strands of hair. The next morning, she awoke a little later than usual, greeted by Colonel Potter, who was bundled in his winter coat and presently pulling his hood down from around his head.
"Well, looks like Miss Sunshine decided to greet the day at last."
The ribs would continue to hinder her movement for weeks to come, she knew, but she was determined to move as much as possible. Using her elbow to elevate herself, she pushed back only slightly against her pillows.
"When do I get out of here?" she mumbled, though feeling a little off as she came into wakefulness.
"You'll get out of here when we say you're good and ready, and not a moment too soon," he used his best stern voice.
At that moment, Hawkeye walked up to the foot of her bed, leaning his elbow on the rail. He mumbled something to the passing nurse, who nodded at him. Folding his hand around his chin, he smiled down at her, hanging her chart back up.
"So, what's the story, Pierce?" Potter implored.
"Just getting the results of the blood I drew, and I'll know more then. In the meantime, I'm gonna have a look at the wound and dressing and if all looks well, Margaret and I could be dancing the Charleston by twenty hun--eight o'clock."
"Just give me an update when you get everything looked over," Colonel Potter ordered, patting Margaret's hand and leaving.
Charles came in right behind him, carrying a tray of food. He seated himself on her right side, pulling the chair as close as he could.
"I regret I am unable to bring you anything of substance from my reliquary, but I did manage to find the most mildly burnt toast this morning."
She smiled at his gesture.
"So when are you two moving in together?" Hawkeye teased from his vantage point at her feet.
"I should think I'd need to find a suitable home for you and Hunnicutt first, Pierce," Charles countered back.
Margaret, meanwhile, was attempting to sit up even further, the extent of her current discomfort multiplied by the effort, as her still vulnerable wound cried out with fury. She immediately halted her movement, placing a hand over the injury, but then retracting it as the touch hurt even further. It hurt nearly as much as it had when she'd first come out of surgery.
Hawkeye quickly came to that side, taking a seat on the bed as he lifted her top to reveal the dressing. Charles had set the tray down, refusing to let worry set in just yet, although a sense of foreboding had come upon him once more. As Hawkeye gently peeled back the gauze, he winced along with Margaret, who was now inundated with a dull throbbing pain emanating from where she'd been shot. The nurse had come back with the test results and, seeing what was going on, handed Hawkeye a glove. He thanked her absently, pulling the glove on so he could press against the wound, which was severely swollen and draining badly. It had even started to bleed a bit at the edges, a light ooze.
Since she'd woken up, she'd felt abnormally hot, but that feeling was now punctuated, and she began to shiver minutely with chills. Hawkeye studied the results of the blood test.
"Elevated white blood cells," he stated, to Charles, who was now very worried, having seen the wound himself.
At Hawkeye's statement, Charles turned to focus on Margaret, who looked slightly anxious herself. He brushed the back of his hand against her forehead, trailing it down to her cheek as he stroked it for a few seconds.
"You're very warm, Margaret."
"I don't feel so good, Charles," she murmured, in an indirect response.
In a relatively short amount of time, chills overtook her body with greater frequency and intensity. The cold air surrounding them only added to her discomfort. Hawkeye quickly cleaned the wound, still not pulling her top down yet, or reapplying a dressing, until Colonel Potter had a look. He stood, calling for their CO. Margaret tried to distract herself by looking at Charles again.
"I'm cold."
Though he could see for himself the physical manifestation of her chills, it was still strange to hear her say it, having felt the great heat emanating from her skin where he'd stroked her cheek.
"Shall I loan you my sweater again?"
He'd meant it as a way to lighten the mood, but it only served to remind him that the sweater he'd leant her was the very one which had been stained with her blood; the one they'd used as a crude, makeshift absorption device. Luckily, she didn't seem to take notice of the reference, or his troubled demeanor because of the reference.
"Just a moment; let Colonel Potter have a look and we'll tuck you in thoroughly."
One of the nurses came by with a thermometer, handing it to Colonel Potter who'd just come to stand by Margaret's side, and popped it into her complacent mouth.
"Well, let's have a look," he said as he observed the area. There was noticeable swelling, coupled with a significant amount of drainge, bright red streaks, and the oozing Hawkeye and Charles had noted. Satisfied with the inspection, Potter nodded to the nurse who'd gotten a new dressing ready, applying it quickly to the wound and vacating to allow the surgeons their time to consult with one another.
Charles had taken her right hand, wrapping his own around her wrist, and holding tightly. The purpose was twofold: he could maintain comforting contact with her and take her pulse.
"This fever came on mighty fast, boys. It worries me," Potter mused.
"Her pulse is normal," Charles supplied.
Hawkeye had taken his position on the bed again, taking her blood pressure.
"Well, her pressure's a little low, but I think we can rule out--"
"Septicemia," Potter finished, hands in a fist behind his back.
Hawkeye rubbed a hand quickly down her cheek.
"She's not in shock, or cyanotic. No petechiae. Blood tests would've shown it, too. We got that fresh batch of penicillin, so we start her on that, she should be good as new. Again."
Margaret made a loud groan, indicating the thermometer still in her mouth, and equally expressing her annoyance at their present treatment of her.
"I'm not dead," she started, icy edge to her voice as Charles pulled out the thermometer. They realized she was right, but the phrasing made them all wince internally.
"102.8," Charles sighed, shaking the glass tube.
"That fever's going to get worse before it gets better, I'm afraid."
Hawkeye slapped his hands on his thighs, standing abruptly.
"Well, Margaret, I'll get you your first dose of pencillin. When things calm down a little, I'll come back and read you A Tale of Two Cities. Or, if you'd rather sleep, Charles can just read you some more poetry."
"Pierce, if the writings of Charles Dickens had been cohabitating with the filth you keep in that locker, then our tent would have long since been visited by the Ghost of Civility begging you to reconsider your deplorable living situation."
"Charles, I take offense to that. My filth would warrant more than just a visitation. A haunting, maybe--"
"Can it. Pierce, give the first dose of pencillin by injection. The rest of the doses go in an I.V. solution."
Colonel Potter took a seat by Margaret's hip, patting her arm.
"These things can happen fast sometimes, I'm just damn grateful it's not septicemia. Now be a good patient and listen to your doctors. I know how stubborn you are, and if you had it your way, you'd be pushing yourself in a wheelchair tomorrow. A little "easy does it" never hurt anyone, so just sit this one out for a few days."
She opened her mouth to protest, but the Colonel continued, "Now, this infection's gotta be hurting and those two broken ribs aren't easy to ignore either. Why don't you let us give you a sedative and you can sleep off a good part of this fever?"
She didn't want to look at Charles just yet, knowing he would've been imploring her to heed Colonel Potter's advice, with his enthralling blue eyes, which she was unable to refuse. Despite keeping her gaze from his, she was also inherently pragmatic and more in pain than she'd been for quite some time. So she nodded her acquiescence, touched as Colonel Potter kissed her cheek before leaving.
Charles had given her the strong sedative only two hours ago and while she'd waited for the medicine to take hold, she'd been slightly diffident, something which confounded Charles a bit, but which he wrote off to the pain and fatigue naturally owing to her condition.
Now, she was sleeping and dreaming, neither of which was particularly pleasant, but rather, disturbed by the high fever still raging through her body and the medicine, which disoriented that which was already unstable. She was dreaming, once more, of her first best friend, Lucy Sullivan.
The last week of summer, before first grade, Margaret's father came home, silent and towering, stating they would be moving and Margaret would be attending a new school. With new friends. So a week later, she sat with Lucy on the grass, their long dresses flapping in the wind, their pigtails loose and unburdened, like the youth in their souls. She told Lucy that she was afraid to leave, afraid of being alone. Lucy tucked something into Margaret's hand before they said goodbye. And when they hugged, for the last time, Lucy whispered, "I'll light candles for you, so you'll never be alone."
They kept in touch with infrequent letters until one day, Margaret received another letter, absent Lucy's handwriting. Lucy had died of influenza. And that day, the only time in her life, she ran out of the house without telling anyone where she was going. Her six-year-old legs propelled her ever forward until she found the Catholic Church in their city. It was empty, but she went forward, feeling as though she was betraying so many people by doing this, but thinking only of her dead friend who could no longer create fires for people she loved. So that day, and only that day, Margaret lit a candle, for someone, for her friend. She was alone, then, and for a long time after.
The sedative still had a strong grip on her consciousness, but she roused slightly, meeting Father Mulcahy's watchful eye.
"A sunflower," she murmured, slurring.
"Pardon, Major?" Father Mulcahy bent forward, gentle eyes on the edge of worry.
"Sunflower."
"Uh, Major Winchester, perhaps you'd better come here," Mulcahy voiced to Charles, who was nearby.
Charles knelt at Margaret's side, pressing his flat hand against her forehead and pursing his lips when he realized she felt even warmer. Margaret was incoherent, unaware of what she was saying or whom she was saying it to.
"Margaret?" he questioned softly.
"She gave me...sunflower. Before she died."
Her eyes slid closed again and Charles was left to ruminate about her fever-induced stirrings.
Four more hours passed and this time, it was easier to come to wakefulness, and lucidity, the potency of the sedative wearing off.
"Margaret?"
She felt a hand stroking her cheek gently.
"Margaret?" the voice was more forceful this time.
Her eyes opened slowly, turning towards the sound of the voice. She smiled when she saw Charles there. He replaced his hand on her cheek with a cool cloth, and the sight of his "nursing" amused her.
"Florence Nightingale?" she teased, her voice airy.
"Rip Van Winkle?" he teased back.
"Drug-induced slumber. It doesn't count."
"Semantics, Major. Though I admire your cleverness."
"How's your ankle?" her thoughts were still a little muddled.
"My ankle?" he furrowed his brow. She continued to run a high fever and slight delirium was not uncommon with that, nor uncommon with a severely infected wound. So he thought he might as well revisit an injury long since past.
"Quite fine, Margaret. Has been since the morning of...the shooting. You know, you must stop worrying me so. I will only blame you when I am completely bald at the conclusion of this senseless fighting."
"Charles--"
He waved a hand in front of her, halting speech, and set down the cloth he'd been cooling her skin with.
"I wanted to briefly expand on a point I had been making earlier, before we are interrupted again."
He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the edge of her bed so when he whispered, his breath tickled her cheek.
"Death is an absolute, yet when you were hurt, I was suddenly more certain of it than I'd ever wanted to be. Logic, of course, ensured that absolute. It also ensured my realization of the degree to which..."
He paused a moment, bringing her hand to his lips, finishing with, "I adore you."
Just then, Hawkeye came up to them, interrupting with, "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of...idiots. Anyway, Charles, here's that book you wanted. Look, why don't I just bring your library and phonograph in here, sustain you with IV fluids, and hose you off once in a while so you never have to leave."
Charles forcefully grabbed the book from Hawkeye's hand, punctuating his gratitude with annoyance, "Thank you, Pierce. Your presence is, as always, most appreciated when it is not present at all."
"Charles, I wouldn't want this interplay with anyone but you," Hawkeye smirked. "Margaret, you are looking as lovely as always. As soon as Scrooge here leaves or collapses with exhaustion, I'll come back with some scotch and you can beat me at poker."
Charles flipped through the book, ignoring Hawkeye who departed with a kiss to Margaret's cheek and a muttered, "Whoever heard of a woman with the middle name of a man, anyway?"
Charles wanted to inquire about the dream Margaret had been disturbed by, earlier, interested in the girl who'd given Margaret a sunflower, and then died. But it would wait. Besides, he preferred to absorb himself in poetic verse, and to bring Margaret within the beauty of those words as well.
"Ah," he said, finally arriving at the poem he wanted to share with her.
"Charles, I'm still groggy, I don't know how long I can keep my eyes open."
"Then sleep, dearest. This is yet another occasion in which you need only to hear. Or, to feel."
She heard him start with, "All I could see from where I stood was three long mountains and a wood," but then closed her eyes, content to feel the poem, as Charles had said, and allow it to take her into blissful slumber once more.
She dozed lightly, consciousness popping in and out, allowing her to hear scant phrases.
"The creaking of the tented sky, the ticking of Eternity. I saw and heard, and knew at last, the How and Why of all things, past, and present, and forevermore..."
His voice, and the grace of the words themselves, eventually merged into that same melodious hum she'd come to hope for, and adore. Before fully succumbing to sleep, she could've sworn she heard a whispered "I love you" within the kiss upon her cheek.
TBC...
