notes: To the few of you reading this, I thank you deeply for the feedback. You obviously have great taste in pairings. :wink: This is the end of the road, for this story, anyway. And I thought it should definitely have a happy ending, since my next story probably won't. Anyway, thanks again for the feedback and enjoy!


A few days had passed and everyone was pleased to see Margaret's infection clear up with little fuss. And while Charles had been giving occasional thought to the identity of the girl who'd given Margaret a sunflower and died, Margaret had been giving equal thought to the melancholy she detected in Charles. It had built gradually as she got better, to the point that he was now more subdued than she could remember him being in quite some time.

In fact, the last time she remembered him being this subdued was when...he'd been troubled by death after he, along with BJ, brought a patient back from the brink of it. She'd referred to his behavior as "weird," in the Officer's Club, but it was quite obvious that she was concerned--more concerned than she'd cared to admit at the time--and she naturally hid strong emotions like that behind a veil of consternation and even indifference. She'd never really discovered the story behind the true cause of his disturbance, but now that he seemed to be displaying the same emotions, she thought it best that she find a way to bring it up, confront it, and possibly...heal it.

Maybe, she wondered surreally, that was the meaning to her bizarre dream involving the priest who smoked cigars and the cliff she couldn't get to, where Charles hung precariously.

As she awoke this particular morning--a mere five days since she'd been shot--she was glad to feel only a distant ache where her wound was. It was only her broken ribs, now, which continued to cause pain, though having them wrapped helped, and so did remaining recumbent. It would be uncomfortable to sit or bend over for any length of time, though she could stand and operate. Of course, that could be relieved with aspirin, but it was still an unpleasant consideration.

It was still very cold around her, so she shivered when she sat upright, pulling the blankets to her stomach.

She remembered Charles sitting on her bed last night, reading to her once more until she'd fallen asleep, but he was currently nowhere to be found. While it disappointed her slightly not to see him, she was also glad, because that more than likely meant he was getting some much needed--and much deserved--rest...in as proper a bed as they could manage in such a setting.

At that moment, BJ walked in, shivering as he shut the door quickly behind him. He spotted her immediately, smiling as he came over and took a seat by her bed. His gloved hands held a box in his lap and he smiled with anticipatory glee as he teasingly lifted a corner of the lid.

"I've got a surprise for you, Margaret."

She folded her hands over her lap, nodding her head to urge him on.

"Fudge," he stated lightly, lifting the box to reveal the chocolate delights.

Her stomach rumbled with resounding approval and she smiled in gratitude, but said, "BJ, Peg sent that for you."

"She did, but you're the sick one. If I eat all this, I'll be the sick one. And we can't afford the loss of my brilliant surgical contributions an upset stomach would cause."

"Well, that's so thoughtful of you, Captain. And what would the other doctors think about you corrupting the strict diet they've implemented for me while I'm under their oppressive, though loving, care?"

"Did I mention it's fudge, Major?" his eyes glistened with amusement.

"Hand it over," she demanded, playing at a stern tone.

Hawkeye came over just as she was taking a second bite, a knowing smile on his face.

"I should've guessed that if one of us was going to sneak goodies to you, it'd be BJ. He'd probably slip candy under the door to a kid who'd just broken his mother's favorite record by using it for target practice. What a softie."

BJ stuck his tongue out at Hawkeye, standing up to leave.

"So since you're getting out today, why don't you drop by the Swamp later? I know Charles will turn off his records to speak with you."

"And now you're using her? I'm appalled." Hawkeye teased.

"Well, I did bring her fudge. She owes me."

BJ departed, patting Margaret's hand gently before he left.

Hawkeye grabbed her chart and took a seat on her bed, glancing over it approvingly as he flipped the page to take note of all her vital signs.

"Well, I've got good news and bad news, Margaret. The good news is, you're perfectly fine. The bad news is, you're perfectly fine. You get to rejoin the ranks of the sleep-deprived and brain-numbed. But, you will be close to me again, something I'm sure inspired you to get well as soon as possible."

Her mouth remained closed in a thin line until she asked, "Where's Charles?"

Hawkeye bent the clipboard sideways, resting it on his thighs, and resting his hands, in turn, atop the edge of the clipboard.

"You know, Margaret, I'm beginning to think I might not be your favorite doctor around here anymore."

"You never were, Pierce."

He put a hand to his chest, feigning indignation.

"I'm hurt. I save your life and you crush my sensitive, tiny ego."

"It would take the manpower of a small armored tank division to destroy your tiny ego."

"So I guess we'd need a few infantry divisions to destroy Charles'?"

Her silence indicated she was not amused, but Hawkeye set the clipboard down, lacing his fingers together and leaning forward as his eyes took on a serious gaze.

"Actually, Margaret, I guess no one told you, but Charles operated on you. I mean, we were all there, but he did most of the work. It wasn't a complicated surgery and he looked...horrified and sick, so I told him to clean up and rest. But he couldn't. He insisted on being the one to save you."

"'Save me'?"

"That's exactly how he put it."

Now she knew she had to confront him. But later. For now, she was anxious to surprise him.

"So, am I free?"

"Indubitably."

"Do me a favor..."


Charles had sat with Margaret last night, as he'd done every night since she'd been hurt, insisting on talking with her or reading to her until she was lulled to sleep. He'd been neglecting his own needs, functioning on a less than normal amount of sleep. But knowing how well she was doing, the infection eradicated and the pain eased, he was able to fully indulge himself in much needed rest. As it was, he neared the brink of wakefulness, having been asleep for six hours already.

A voice cut into his semi-consciousness, calling his name. Still half-asleep, he rebelled against it, swinging a hand futilely in the air, saying, "Leave me be."

"Fine, Charles, I'll just go to breakfast with Hawkeye."

The feminine lilt, now louder, immediately roused him and he turned his head on his pillow, coming face to face with Margaret, who was seated in a wheelchair beside his bed.

"Margaret, what--"

"I escaped. Come on, are you hungry?"

He sat up fully, pulling on his coat quickly as the chilly air hit his skin.

"Did Pierce bring you here?"

"Yeah, I wanted to surprise you."

"Well, I--I would've preferred--"

"Charles, you can't just be happy that I'm up and about?"

"I am happy, Margaret. Very. I just...are you warm enough?" he suddenly stood, tugging on the sweater she was wearing, the same worry seeping back into his voice as he wondered if it was thick enough.

He opened his locker, pulling out another sweater and kneeling in front of her. His eyes were full of intense emotions and she was reminded, yet again, of how important just the focus of gaze could make her feel. It was as though nothing else mattered right now. He pulled the sweater over her head and she let him loop her arms through the sleeves, an amused expression on her face.

"Charles, I'm not paralyzed, despite the appearance of this wheelchair."

"I know, but your ribs will be sensitive for a while. No need to cause unnecessary strain when help can be afforded you."

He patted the material down, placing a gentle kiss on her forehead.

"Shall we journey to the mess tent and sustain you with food which will ensure your delayed recovery?"

"Charles, when you say it like that, it makes me think the food here is awful or something."


After they ate, Charles wheeled Margaret back to her tent. As soon as she crossed the threshold, she closed her eyes and sighed with contentment. Hawkeye had put her fudge on the bed like she'd asked. Everything else was exactly how she'd left it. Even the copy of Stars and Stripes lay where she'd rested it, earmarked at the last place she'd read.

"Home, sweet home," she mused.

Charles smiled at her joy, pushing the chair inside quickly, to avoid the brief gust of wind beckoning at his back. When he stopped pushing, Margaret put her hands on the armrests, preparing to stand. Charles quickly came around to stand in front of her.

"Margaret--" he began.

"Charles," she warned, her tone laced with an icy warning to let her be until she absolutely needed help.

He complied, backing up slightly to give her room. When she had stood and taken a few steps towards her bed, he followed closely behind her, a hand ghosting at the small of her back, should she need help. When she made it to her bed, she sat carefully, to avoid aggravating her injured ribs. Though they had taped them initially, and even earlier this morning, she now went without any added pressure, as they had started to heal slightly and it would be the best way to avoid causing a nasty chest infection. She grabbed the box of fudge, gesturing for Charles to take the seat beside her.

"Hunnicutt sneak you that contraband, Major?"

She nodded around a bite of fudge.

"Yes, this is illegal, Major Winchester, you are aiding and abetting a criminal violating her doctors' orders. That being said, want some?"

She pushed the box in front of him and he took a piece, smiling at her humour. She set the box down now, turning to face Charles and taking his hand in hers.

"I know I just settled in, but there's something that's been on my mind and I wanted to talk to you about it."

He looked slightly more concerned, glancing at their joined hands and stroking his thumb over hers.

"Charles, remember when you and BJ saved that kid whose heart had stopped, when that sniper was firing on us?"

He nodded, apprehension now joining the dance in his eyes.

"I always thought there was something...more to how troubled you were by it. I should've asked, but I didn't, because I knew, even then, how I felt about you. I was afraid...anyway, I'll never forget that look on your face, Charles. I hoped I wouldn't have to see it again, but I have. Since I've been hurt, Charles, that look has been plastered all over your face and I want to know why, what I can do to help."

He removed his hand from hers, standing up abruptly.

"Well, Major, I apologize if my demeanor has upset your equilibrium in some way. I shall amend my present mood and affix a smile upon my face to appease your inquiry. And you can help by taking care of your own needs."

He stuffed his hands in his pockets and exited before she could reply.


Shortly after the displeasing discussion with Margaret, Charles was occupied with an onslaught of wounded that poured into camp. Outwardly, he was his usual professional self, but internally, he was berating himself for leaving Margaret in such a way, knowing she was still not up to full capacity and wondering if she'd perhaps needed help lying down or retrieving some reading material, or any number of things. She could hurt herself! he chided himself, angrily.

As another grueling session of surgery ended, Charles quickly removed his scrubs, thinking he'd better head to Margaret's to apologize, but uncertain just yet about what to say or how to say it. He pulled on his coat slowly, his gloves even slower.

Hawkeye came up behind him, pulling on his own green jacket and quite surprisingly proposed the offer, "Why don't you let me buy you a drink, Charles?"

Thinking it a wonderful distraction on his current indecision about how best to apologize to Margaret, he gladly accepted the offer.

Over drinks, Charles confessed, "She asked something...deeply personal of me. I objected to her probing rather vehemently."

"Have you spoken to her since?"

"Immediately afterwards, we were inundated with casualties."

Hawkeye nodded, sipping from the amber bottle as he formulated a response.

"You were the first person she asked for this morning. You've been the first person she's asked for, every morning, since she was shot. If you can find a woman who actually wants to see you that soon after they wake up, I say stick with her."

Charles sighed, wondering why he'd thought it would be a good idea to elicit counsel from Hawkeye.

"Look, Charles, for some reason, she likes you, a lot. She always has. That's obvious to anyone. She gets mad when she gets scared. And she gets scared when she gets close. And you like her, which is even more obvious. You must let her see the man none of us ever do. So...why not, you know, let her see that too? Whatever's bothering you, I mean. Let her see the bad stuff. You know, the other bad stuff. She's a great nurse, Charles, really knows how to heal wounds and make people feel better."

Charles finished his Cognac, smiling at Hawkeye.

"Pierce, I hope we never have to do this again, but I will end this therapeutic session with a grateful thank you."

He left, still not knowing how to relate what she'd asked of him, but certain he had to.


He had to knock several times in a row before she'd finally agreed to allow him inside. He hoped she hadn't locked it, as he didn't want her getting up to unlock it. Thankfully, she hadn't. He bowed his head slightly as he entered, penitent in demeanor.

"What do you want?"

He removed his hat, folding it between his hands, glad he hadn't unbuttoned his coat as it seemed he'd shortly be out in the cold again.

"Margaret, I--"

"You try to help someone and all they do is push you away and leave in a huff, like you were the one who did something wrong. Oh, how dare I care, Major. What was I thinking?"

"Margaret--" he stepped closer.

"Why don't you just go back to the Swamp and play your records? They won't ask anything of you."

"No, they certainly won't."

At her instantly increased expression of fury, he realized he hadn't worded that as he'd meant.

"No, Margaret, let me explain--"

"Major, I think you've done enough today. I'm sore, I just took some medicine, so I'm tired and I'm uninterested in any hollow apologies or explanations you might like to give me. So, get out!"

Charles stood firm, continuing closer to her. She sat on the bed, legs dangling over the side, and he moved until he was kneeling in front of her. He tried to pull her hands into his, but she snatched them away. Persistent, he placed his hands on her knees now, and though she initially jerked them, she eventually relented.

He could see the fatigue in her eyes, the medicine making her groggy. If he hadn't come in, she probably would've been asleep by now.

"May I stay with you until you fall asleep?" he asked, feeling like an admonished child begging forgiveness for eating all the cookies from the jar just before dinner.

She sighed.

"I'm still mad at you, Charles. You can stay, but then I want you to leave. I don't want you here when I wake up."

"Understood," he acknowledged.

Removing his hands from her knees, he stood to assist her so she could settle into the bed.

"Did you injure yourself earlier, doing this alone?"

"I twisted wrong and my ribs weren't happy. That's why I took the pain medicine."

He nodded, feeling even guiltier for leaving her that way. As her head hit the pillow, he pulled her pajama top up to reveal the healing wound. The angry red streaks and swelling of days ago were gone, replaced by natural pinkish hues assuring healing. He bent forward to kiss the area of skin surrounding where she'd been shot, lips lingering softly and sweetly. Margaret gasped slightly at the gesture, moving her hand to push him away. Instead, he seized her fingers, kissing them, too, and took a position on the bed, keeping her hand in his lap.

By now, her eyelids were drooping and she blinked rapidly in a vain attempt to stay awake.

"I'm so tired," she slurred, voice close to silence.

"I know, sweetheart," he responded quietly, stroking her hair to lull her into the sleep beckoning her submission. His gentle motion against her head, eventually ensured that submission as she closed her eyes completely. He waited a few minutes to make sure she was deeply asleep, then kissed her hand once more before opening the door with amateur stealth and exiting, as she'd asked.

He couldn't stay away the entire time, though. A few hours later, he ventured back, hesitating at the threshold. It was just past dusk and the absent sun gave way to a greater chill. He knew he couldn't stay out here long, but he didn't want to shatter the tenuous peace they'd come to earlier, by going inside her tent, against her wishes. He decided to return to his tent and come back later, after she'd slept some more. So when a few more hours had passed, he returned to her tent again. Seeing no light on, he thought perhaps he should just go back to the Swamp and get some sleep of his own.

But he had wonderings of his own and worried that her slumber might still be troubled, even more troubled, given the tempestuous fog she'd fallen asleep to. So he sat on the cold ground, unsure why, and even more surprised at the action itself. To his even greater surprise, twenty minutes later, the door to her tent opened and he turned his head around to see her standing there, hair tousled adorably with sleep and sweater lopsided at the neck as she peered down at him curiously.

"Well, you didn't want to see me when you awoke. Technically, you would not have seen me, had you remained in your tent," he stated, defensively.

She closed the door and took a seat on the ground next to him, wincing a bit as she tried to find a comfortable position. He watched her carefully, hand going to her hip as he eased the process for her. When she'd finally taken a seat, she leaned her shoulder into him, crossing her arms over her chest and pulling them inward to conserve heat.

"Charles, Hawkeye told me that you operated on me, that you'd insisted on saving me. I think it's all...connected."

Charles nodded.

"I had a little brother, Timmy. We were quite young, mischievous, curious. He had more of an adventurious streak than me. One day, we happened upon a large tree which Timmy insisted on climbing. It looked sturdy enough, but I rebuked his insistence on climbing it. He begged me to allow him to do so, though. I let him, and he...fell. He was quiet and still and I thought I could...save him. I had to save him. I should have protected him to begin with. I should have stopped him from climbing it, or been up there with him. I should have...protected you. But since I couldn't, I had to save you. Like I couldn't save him," his voice descended into the shadows, like winds at funerals, and he bowed his head.

She placed an icy hand over his, squeezing as she rested her head upon his shoulder.

"Charles, did you ever think that instead of blaming yourself for not saving everyone else, you might let someone...save you?"

He was silent for a long moment before answering, "Recently, I've been wondering if I have found someone who can."

"And?"

"She looks remarkably like you."

Margaret smiled, lacing her arm through Charles'.

"Who was the girl who bestowed upon you a sunflower, prior to her death?"

The question surprised Margaret, as she remembered her old friend and wondered how Charles knew about it.

"You mentioned her when you were delirious with fever a few days ago," he explained.

Margaret nodded, sighing.

"A friend. My best friend, Lucy Sullivan. We had to move away and then she...died. I lit a candle for her and then I realized how alone I was. How alone I would be."

Charles pulled his arm from beneath Margaret's, placing it, instead, around her shoulders. He pulled her in tightly as he said, "Margaret, earlier you said that I should play my records because they don't ask anything of me--"

"Charles, I was--"

He cut her off quickly.

"Refrain from dissent for a moment. You said they don't ask anything of me. Music is my refuge, my passion, my deliverance. But it will never be my touchstone, because it doesn't ask anything of me. I need to be challenged and reprimanded and shifted. I need to be better. And you, my dear Major, provide all that and more, by asking everything of me. You will never be alone, you see, as I need you for my own selfish reasons."

She smiled at his words as he kissed her cheek.

"And what are those?"

"I regret that I am, in some instances, a frayed string in need of mending."


A few days later, Charles was pleasantly biding his time alone in the Swamp by playing the Schnabel record Margaret had given him. With BJ and Hawkeye out for drinks, he was thankful the threat of interruption was but a distant worry.

That thankfulness dissipated quickly as he heard the door swing open slowly. Setting down the book of Millay poetry, he turned to face the intruder, face instantly softening as he saw Margaret standing there, hands in her pockets as her body shook with cold.

"Margaret, you shouldn't be walking around like this."

"Charles, I've been out of that wheelchair for days now, I can walk perfectly fine."

"I know, but it's even colder today than it has been. I don't want you catching ill," he fretted, amusing her, pulling the blanket off his bunk to wrap it around her shoulders. He ushered her over to where he'd been, providing her with an extra chair.

"Oh, this is the record I bought you," she commented as she heard the music.

"Yes, how did you know?"

"You were playing it earlier and I saw the record cover. Deduction. I wish I could've gotten Schnabel here to play for you personally."

Charles cringed, trying to mask it quickly with a smile, but failing. Margaret laughed as she watched him.

"Charles, I'm kidding. I know Artur Schnabel died in 1951 and he most frequently played the works of Beethoven and Schubert," she stated with pride at her recitation of facts.

Charles looked impressed now, smiling at her knowledge.

"Do you have any Schubert records?" she asked of him.

"I do."

"You should play some for me."

She shifted closer so they were leaning against one another. Her eyes closed as she listened to the music, enjoying it immensely.

"I like this, all of it, very much," she remarked, speaking of more than just the music.

"I concur."

She turned in her chair so their eyes met, then put her hands on either side of his face, stroking her fingers down his cheeks.

"I love you," she whispered, just before she pulled his lips against hers for a kiss.

And as he breathed a reciprocal, "I love you," into her mouth, she thought of sunflowers who always follow the shining, and lovers, who keep each other warm.

fin.